We move through life so damn fast, and with such a rate of increasing complexity, that it is often easy to look back at simpler times--drunk times too--and revel in them as one might take a nostalgic dip into a memory of early childhood.
I used to live in Minnesota. And like all good Minnesotans, I went to Duluth a few times a year. You too? Well, damn. Now there's a town for good beer. So when my friend just sent me a nytimes article on beer in the north county, I didn't expect my nostalgia glands to salivate so heavily at an immediately familiar (and quite warm) image. We used to stop in this place for the best fucking beer this side of the northwest--and I'm sorry, but the best IPA, and IPA was my beer, I ever had was in Seattle. Enough hops to blow a hole in your throat and seize up your sinuses. Like, you know, sheer bliss. It was mandatory to have two of these and wait out the buzz to drive back, or request that my then girlfriend drive, and have two more. Let's see if I can find a picture for old times' sake. Well, I better not actually. So dense and cloudy were the pictures, and so inversely clear was my memory of the crispness, that I'll just finish this post out right now with an ode to fitgers in duluth--it will always stay a weak spot in my heart.
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