This beer had a 2000 bottle run all the way out in Indiana, so I hit up my homie Cam on his two-way and then found out no one has two way pagers, so I chirped his Nextel, and, you see where this is going, antiquated technology jokes and shit. Anyway, he picked these up and shipped them to me so we can get chocolate wasted. That shit cray.

Upland Brewing, Gilgamesh 10.5% abv sour Flanders Red Ale

If you think I will drop some Spencer references or pander to some cliche Enkidu punchlines you can fuck right off.

A: The appearance has a ruddy brownish amber aspect to it with fine microbubbles and generous lacing. It looks like a murky pond water that you know has some single mom bodies hidden in it but, who’s gonna get in there, you know. Oh and it is mildly flirty, you get this beer’s number but you know she wont text you back.

S: The smell has a sweet vinegar smell to it with cherry, ripe strawberry, mild oak and a faint vanilla. Very pleasant like an aromatic candle from bath and body works.

T: The sweetness initially sets in with a great cherry and grenadine flavor and the sour notes are not too overpowering, it maintains an incredible balance. There is a light note of tannins and grape skin and the bourbon is almost non-existent.

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and incredibly light and is exceptionally refreshing. I had to look this beast up and it is unbelievable at a crisp 10.5% abv. Holy hell this is so delicious and it tastes like biting into a ripe fuji apple. Amazing fruit character and the bourbon dryness imparts itself when it warms. Shit gets popping off like a Lil B video real quick.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and absolutely frightening how drinkable this is. If you told me it was a 5% lambic I would be all like “that’s chill, you gonna finish those fries?” and we’d mash out on food and secretly get wasted on this baller ass beer. It just washes away clean and doesn’t impart an overly overpowering alcoholic waft or dryness. In sum, this is about as good as Flanders Reds get in my opinion. The sweetness just beckons like a Wonka factory and then you get inside and OH SHIT, it’s a distillery instead. Surprises abound.

Narrative: The life of an ice sculptor was a hard one and Michael Chambers accepted his fate with a stern mandible. The variability and volitility of the the raw material presented a dynamic canvas that knew the scope and change only held by a street artist. The goal of art is to make man like God within the ambit of creation, and Michael carved the fuck out of ice. Sometimes he would straddle that block with a pick and get to flexing on the shavings, ruminating on how his life had come to this point. “Jay Z often referenced the fact that there were no clouds within his stones, well, you wont see oxidation impurities in my stones either!” Michael quipped to the ice woman he had carved in his walk-in sub zero studio. Not a single nip was left flaccid at his gallery opening, temperature or otherwise. His recreation of Rodan’s thinker was deemed insubstantial unlit HE LIT THAT SHIT ON FIRE. He was an underappreciated genius who took a mediocre genre to new heights. His installation piece involved dropping a solid ice block off of a North Dakota mountain, just when the critics had dismissed his efforts, in the center of the block was a frozen cure for tuberculosis. Mystical at heart, but fantastic in execution, Michael generated icegasms.