Sorry for the delay, all, it took me two weeks to track down any of the new Sixpoint beers south of Fairfield, but they do seem to be propagating through liquor stores and brewpubs. Apollo was the first beer I picked up, since it is Sixpoint's summer seasonal this year, and I am an incurable geek about both space and Greek mythology. I was held helpless in this beer's sway even sitting on the shelf and, having run a few pints through my bloodstream, my slavish dedication hasn't lessened. 

Apollo gives off a brilliant aroma of yeasts and Bavarian wheat. Its color scores a 3.7 on the Standard Reference Method scale (or SRM; in this case straw colored, tending towards pale gold), a unit of measure especially useful when printed on the outside of opaque cans. Its unusual clarity (for a hefeweizen) is a result of the the beer being put through a centrifuge before canning, allowing it to keep the flavor and body, but with fewer solids.

"The planet has needs for your deeds," read the bottle cap. I studied it as the beer's head made sizzling noises, bubbles popping in the glass. "Well," I thought, dropping the cap and producing a tinny rattle. "Obviously." I brought my eyes around to study the carbonation's wavering path as it rose through the brown fluid. A previous topper reading "It's later now than it has ever been before" stuck to my other hand as I put it down. I flicked the cap, and it skidded across the glass table, leaving a faint but traceable trail through the collected pollen. Weakening rays of early evening sun hit me on a slant as I closed my eyes and leaned back. Those beams wouldn't be much good for generating solar power, but they seemed to recharge my personal batteries just fine. Some sort of tiny insect crawled its way over the hills and valleys of my toes and back into the green grass. Ah, spring.