Let me tell you about my Inflatable Time Machine

For my father’s birthday, we gave him essentially what every 21-year-old wants: his own pub crawl. I don’t mean to speak poorly of my father’s maturity, but he was thrilled. Because I was put in charge of planning this event — wisely or not — we went to a bunch of places in Columbus, Ohio, whose beer I dig. I almost got us all cheap matching Ts to have the bartenders sign at each stop, but in the end, saved us that embarrassment. Our first stop was the Hoof Hearted Brewing pub. (Go ahead, say it a few times.)

My friend Kate joined us again, and it probably goes without saying that my mother was the stoic, only occasionally disdainful designated driver.

We heard the brewpub long before spotting it. The thumping noise outside was incongruous with the generic architecture that seems to speak to whatever the newest batch of yuppies is called. Inside, the four-on-the-floor beat faded under dozens of ironic conversations between bearded and bespectacled hipsters. My clan slunk in, squarely, and wove our way amidst the crowd of afternoon drinkers, which was clothed entirely in thrift store T-shirts printed with slogans the wearers didn’t believe.

Phashion Phil, our waiter

We found a table outside where we could watch silly people exercising through the windows of the gym next door. We conferred about which beers to taste, trying to nonchalantly throw around names like Wet When Slippery, Mom Jeans, and Bulgin Musk. Then our adorable and slightly stoned waiter arrived and I tripped over Kill Wai-iti (say: KILL WHITEY!), a Belgian IPA and also ordered an Inflatable Time Machine, a sour. Kate was admirably adroit, ordering her Sidepipin, a farmhouse ale. My father, unsurprisingly, chose the DIPA, South of Eleven.

While initially we were desperately hungry, we quickly and easily slid into a happy, satiated alcoholic fog. The beers were good, all of them. And we kept saying so. The names, though — we couldn’t keep them straight, let alone say them without giggling like we were drunk or something. My oh-so-sober mother, couldn’t figure out any of them (outside Mom Jeans, natch), and I just thank God I didn’t have to explain Sidepipin.

I was surprisingly happier with the sour than the Belgian IPA. Kill Wai-iti, while a delicious beer, was nothing new, while the sour was bright and sunny. But, to be honest, I have yet to encounter a beer from Hoof Hearted that I didn’t want to take home with me. (#innuendo #iamcoolerthanyou #followmeontwitter)

After our waiter — who, turns out, is a fashion designer — brought us the bill, we went back inside where it was by then mercifully breathable. The label art, which my mother also found so puzzling, covered the walls and window shelves. As Kate pointed out, you might not know what to do with one piece on its own, but put all together they make a fantastic and meaningful body of work. It says: here is this life I live, it’s weird and awkward and funny and mine — share it with me. Much like Hoof Hearted’s beer, it’s a finely crafted, delicious sort of strange.