I am sad to say the season of the Winter Lager is coming to an end.
It is March in the Northern Wilderness of Ohio, and the somewhat dismal snow (which has been up to now driven back by the sweet spice of Winter Lager) has retreated into a petulant drizzle. The ground isn't sufficiently cold anymore to keep various alcohol solutions close to freezing. But thank God the windchill has gone above zero and there's no worry of five foot snowdrifts.
Sam Adams manufactures Winter Lager from October to February. It's distinguished from all their other brands by a robin's egg blue label that clearly (or, after a few, not so clearly) says "WINTER LAGER". It's my favourite beer, so you can understand how morose I am at its passing. A man and his beer should not be separated by the fickle constraints of time. By pecuniary barriers, perhaps — we could not will that beer be sold for nothing, though it would indubitably increase pleasure at the expense of pain.
It gets cold out here, my friends, so cold that two hooded sweaters and an old wool jacket are like hospital gowns to the wind that blows without mercy. There's not much else to do up here but play Katamari Damacy and drink beer. The choices are slim — though now that we have a proper pharmacy that stocks Heineken, which not exactly grandpa's cough syrup, and by no means better than the beer currently under consideration — and while it's acceptable for a fraternity to stock case upon case of watered piss, it's non-optimal. Watered piss maxes out at %2.5, whereas W. L. has around 7%, and tastes like Christmas. God bless you, Sam Adams, God bless. We'll see you next year.