Yearly Archives: 2012

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Boulevard Brewing Company, Rye on Rye, HOT STICKY RYE ON RYE ACTION, alcohol was involved.

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Initially I did not seek out the Boulevard lineup because I really didn’t know what they were exactly, I just knew that they were from the midwest, traded mid-range, and weren’t on the top 100. Oh how I have learned from my transgressions. Their brett saison was a mouthgasm and this is like huffing exhaust from a Maybach: classy and destructive.

Sometimes it feels like this should be a pay site with all this hot Rye on Rye action going on.

Boulevard Rye on Rye, 11% abv, Rye Beer

Bottle #1767 of 12148, LOSES POINTS FOR LACK OF ULTRA RARE.

Ok so they took an amazing Rye Beer and then put it into barrels of Templeton Rye whiskey and aged it until we got this raucous potation, ready to scrap with the best of Affliction t-shirts.

A: The appearance is a deep murky amber with ruby tones and a translucence that light passes changed like an aurora borealis. The carbonation is absurd and gets nimbus status real quick and takes 3 minutes to stratify into porous catacombs where the aromas go to die. Looks like bayou bubble bath for neglected children.

This beer feels classic, yes impure, like being beaten with a Dinoriders toy, but you secretly like it.

S: There is a waft of whiskey, mild heat, prunes, figs, toffee and melted brown sugar similar to bananas fosters. It’s like getting a hug from your postman, professional but not so seccretly alcoholic.

T: This is really impressive and unique. It straddles right between a big quad and a bourbon barrel barleywine but remains unique but imparting that characteristic crackly rye finish. It dries the gumline at first but imparts deep pitted fruits and deep peppery notes that would keep even the flattest, most uninspiring midwest states entertained. I think California would never make something like this, because the moment someone was close they would fall in love with a hipster chick or an earthquake would happen or a celebrity would walk by or they would get hit on the head with a book of cliches. The taste has a faint floral note but it is impressive in how distinct it is but shares the penumbra of tons of different styles. You could even tell someone this was an old ale with the waft of booziness and WOULDN’T THEY LOOK LIKE SHIT WHEN YOU REVEALED IT WAS A RYE BEER.

Whenever I trade for something, it is a gamble, the verdict is MOAR.

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and light like spraying caramel binaca into your mouth. If you were born in the 90’s you probably dont know what Binaca, but trust me, it was so cash. It washes clean and imparts some drying effects with mild oakiness but I enjoy the complexity through and through. The booziness could be ratcheted back a bit, but then it is rye beer in a rye whiskey barrel so what was I expecting? Not some velvet smoothe experience, it tastes like a kiss from a University of Kentucky undergrad.

D: This is very boozy, hot, oaky, and reeks of acetone. It is also delicious. This ambivalence creates this push pull mechanism where you dont want to stop drinking but your palate and liver whisper silent pleas to stop the abuse. You can get a new liver, but trading for bottles of Rye on Rye is almost harder, I have PPO insurance SO I MIGHT AS WELL. Basically, its a bit prickly but worth the ride, like the end of Splash Mountain, except instead of singing bears, it is more like police sirens. Cutty.

It took me an entire bottle to decide how I feel about this and I can decidedly say: feelings. Rye feelings.

Narrative: Secale was always the snubbed cereal sister. She looked longingly through the window of the local department store and stared at the simple enzymes and pleasing chains of glucose and always looked at herself and thought “why me?” Every eligible substrate within the tri-ribosome county knew that she was prude and nearly impossible to postulate the “Lock and Key” hypothesis with, if we are speaking crudely. Rye held her head up high and Ms. Secale powered on. Perhaps it was a penchant for racism, as Secale was primarily found in Turkey, and her people stretched along the fertile crescent and the “pure” crops of corns and rice simply edged her out of all competition. Secale sobbed angrily into her long-leafed stalks and cursed her base heritage. Who would ever love a coarse grain like her? A gentle southern gentleman in an alabaster suit took her in his palm and caressed her intentions into a fanciful Pinnochio universe not unlike J. Worthington Foulfellow. Before she knew it, Secale was impressed to a life of hard alcoholism and then enslaved to a barrel. After years of hard fermentation she emerged a hateful shell of feminine herbal grace, her only desire, to burn and scorn the XY chromosomal order. Such is the hateful story of the Rye upon Rye, as true today as when it was written.

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Maine Beer Company, Lunch India Pale Ale, Tapping the Maine Vein

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Happy Valentines’ Day. I bet you were expecting some chocolate beer, or a beer made from flowers, or the tears of a brackish spinster. Too bad, curveball from out of nowhere, WORLD CLASS IPA. No variations on a theme or significance, OR IS THERE? I don’t know Flaubert, let’s see what you are capable of, dig deeper, the hops lie below. Total eclipse of the hop.

Try to forget all those hateful stereotypes about people from Maine and keep an open mind.

Maine Beer Company, Lunch IPA, 7% abv

Bottled 1/24/12, consumed on 2/13/12, HOW IS THAT FOR FRESHNESS, HATERS?

A: The look of this beer isn’t offputting but I dont want to put a ring on it either. it has great soapy carbonation and head like the Put Em on the Glass video, sudsy and inviting. The color is a bit low on the SRM and you know I want that HIGHER. All in all, not the prettiest beer but, your palate would probably be down, stop fronting.

Sometimes you are in the mood for something dark and serious, but then you change your mind, this beer is...yeah...this is much better....

S: This is one floral and amazing smelling beer, it has notes of orange juice, apricot, pineapple, and sweet mango. There is almost no herb or that stupid offputting basil smell from high alpha acid hops, its just knocking the boots all night long all up in my nose holes.

T: It isn’t as juicy or as sweet as I was anticipating but wow it has a fantastic crossover taste that lies somewhere between orange rind and aserose pine needles. It is interesting because the first taste is very muted, you almost dont get anything in the sweet zones until you move it to the back of your palate and then it opens up like a jack in the box. Hop cone trojan horse. The resistance put up by my tastebuds lies somewhere between soft linen and balsa wood. I guess the question arises: Is it better than Blind Pig? It is more aggressive and muted in execution but in terms of sessionability, no.

This is an incredible IPA, srsly. SRSLY.

M: The mouthfeel is watery and clean, the soapy bubbles do all the work for you. The mild hop oils linger for a little bit but are swiftly swept up by dutiful conifer groundskeepers, I bet you just imagined the pine trees with moustaches you racist. I guess the next question is, is this as good as Sculpin? I wish I could be a hype machine and say yes due to rarity, however, this is one instance where I think pound for pound Sculpin is A BIGGER FISH. Simple puns, we are doing them now. This has a longer lingering taste but Sculpin has a great juiciness that I appreciate more. This is certainly more drinkable, however, I feel the juiciness of Sculpin carries the day. Don’t even bring Alpine into this mix, shit will go off the hinges chains and heezy real quickly.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and you dont need a lot of it, not due to ABV, but to to the simple palate to weight ratio. For such a gentle soul it just hit a resonant chord, A minor I believe, and just rides the pine and herbs out. The citrus minor has a mixolydian backseat role but this is still exceptional. It’s like making out with a really hot girl that has a permanent retainer, there’s aspects you would change, but it’s still enjoyable through and through.

There are certain things that the South is capable of, making incredible IPAs does not seem to fall within that suite of skills.

Narrative: Shel Vintius was not your average graveyard keeper. Well first and foremost, he called his plot an Herbortician Field. This was a rarely used, but niche service in contemporary society. You see, Shel was beat savagely with weeping willow switches as a child and developed an odd communion with the flora. The stinging bark was a panacea for his painful reality. “Oh yeah, just toss the saplings taproots bottom forward in the ebony case.” The affluent patrons sobbed demonstratively as Shel prepared the funeral for the plants. So much of love is predicated on cognition. So much of the human condition is invested in reciprocation and the semblance of a bilateral affection. Plants were not capable of this but Shel didn’t allow that to sway his opinion. He stroked the cold bark of the still living birch sapling and brushed his knuckles against the backs of the budding roots. He could still feel the beat of turgot pressure within the cell walls. “Gone too soon, hardly able to produce meiological pollen preparation, so chilling.” The family stood awkwardly watching this scene take place, the sign “Plant Recycling Plant Recycling Plant” was both misleading, and incredibly clear.

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Upland Brewing Gilgamesh Flanders Red Sour, Mesopotamian Hot Shit

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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.

Keep talking shit on sour beers. See what happens.

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.

Some people drop feelings all like, why you review rare sours and shit, of 99 problems, that is not one.

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.

I didn't expect much from this brew and then my face was all like-

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.

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Kuhnhenn Bourbon Barrel Barley Wine, Michigan Doesn’t Mess Around With Cold Winters, 15.1% abv

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This beer has a huge following from all of those crazy barleywine kids that always get jazzed about anything that gets tossed in a top notch bourbon barrel. PSH. Actually the venn diagram of my life is subsumed by a good penumbra of that diagram, for those visually inclined. I LIKE THIS STYLE. I hope I like this too, seems pretty legit.

Don't adjust your monitor, this beer is flatter than the plot arch in an M. Night Shamylan movie. The twist is you wake up with no credit card.

Kuhnhenn Bourbon Barrel Barley Wine, Barleywine 15.1% abv, 2010 vintage

A: It looks like iced tea. That’s it. Like it seriously looks like the free drink you get at the Old Spaghetti Factory. The lacing is nominal like a hug from a stripper after cash has changed hands. It sits there tepid and sad, wondering where its mother barleywine is, longing for the warm comfort of the barrel it loved. No lacing, not jack shit.

When you fuck with the barley, you get the wine.

S: Oh well, shit. All the hating I just did comes full circle immediately after smelling this. It is brown sugar, sweet macaroon, toffee, mild clove, maple syrup and fresh waffle. It smells incredible. It is like a decadent alcoholic dessert to take in. The lackluster appearance is a complete wash at this point. Just amazing.

T: It doesn’t go as sweet as the nose would suggest and hits initially with a warming flat metallic note that quickly changes its tune into a candy bitterness like a caramel coated leaf and then warms gently into a bourbon den of iniquity. After the first few sips, it becomes apparent that this is meant to be shared, even in a 12oz format. At the end there’s a huge oakiness like that woody finish that I hate from Hair of the Dog and encountered with the 4th Dimentia. It is definitely an intentional stylistic decision and I just dont think that I am on board.

This beer reminds me of something old, angry, irascible, and hateful.

M: This has a mild slick watery coating that marches through and burns shit like General Sherman. Railroad rails are tied around trees. Nothing is spared and your antebellum palate is destroyed toe to tip. It reminds me of in Civilization where you could develop a single unit to completely leevel the entire Babylonian civilization, this is that little beer that is a nuke underneath.

D: Well, read that last paragraph and ask yourself if you would be down to put up with that. I am letting it warm and the bitter beginning with the fireball finish makes this a clip cloppy recalcitrant colt that will not be tamed. I tug at the malty horsebit but it will not be broken, this alcholic beast is a dominator.

After just 12oz of this you wont know what exactly happened, but you might like it that way.

Narrative: Jayden ground his teeth and surveyed the recess playground. “Pussies, each and every one of them, part and parcel” he noted to Jeffrey who was busy counting the Lunchables spoils. Jayden was an anomaly lab child created by a hopeful lesbian love union, the results were not as desired. Jayden grew uninhibited without the constraints of a plcental wall and was a statuesque 5′ tall at age 9 and had the cerebral capacity of a zygote fed pure synthetic nutrition. They had developed the super bully. Having two mothers fed his insecurities and his rage. It wasn’t so much the teasing from the other children, for they regarded him as a stoic golem, not to be pestered. He was upset with the draconian North Dakota laws, which forbade domestic partnerships. Bullying was his craft and vent. “OH OH OH, hey, Golding, come here one more time, your Yu Gi Oh deck, is fucking mine.” It was a troublesome existence, but he financed a civil rights group with his hateful conduct. It was the irony of a filthy hand washing a calloused hand. He flipped a salami piece into his gullet and ground it with his new permanent teeth. “Hunter is a complete fag” he quipped without the mildest sense of irony.

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Churchill’s Finest Hour Imperial Stout, Good Old Winston Churchill Beer, Solid Old Lion

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In honor of a certain beer release, I thought I would review this old gem, one of what, 200 bottles released? This is a gem that I was lucky enough to try and I thought I would roll out my 2011 impressions before the brand spanking new recruits land.

One of the only British people to ever live to have not only no overbite, but an underbite.

Churchill’s Finest Hour, Imperial Stout 11% abv

A: As to be expected, this beer has an oily thick blackness like the trails of a frightened squid. It sticks to the glass and drags its fingers wantingly to the depths below. Also coffee brown head with nice lacing, but mostly poltergeists and petulant ghouls are left wanting.

This beer was all strong, thick and dark. Picture unrelated.

S: There is a great deep dark fruit coming from the wafts. It feels like high brow huffing to inhale this beer. There are licorice notes and some burnt chocolate. It’s like someone burned down the Chocolate factory only to replace it with a distillery.

T: There is a nice thick “black” caramel taste, were that even to exist. It follows with a fully presentable chocolate palate that dominates the palate with minor bits of mocha and toasted almond burning through on the tail end.

I will give you a hint for what type of people don't enjoy or get to drink this beer. Picture very related.

M: This coats very well but, it feels like it is fighting in a league where it is simply out classed. The stickiness is nice but the flavors aren’t so impressive as to warrant searching high and low for this beast. I feel that rarity has boosted the curb appeal of this old chestnut. It seems like after 2 weeks of summer camp, when anything shy of a size 12 gets a second look from angst ridden adolescents.

D: Sadly, this beer does not perform well in this category either. The bourbon notes impart a dryness that makes it totally inapplicable for all of my Integra modification days in the hot sun. It also makes it unworthy of chilly times fixing my lift kit on my truck simply due to its unavailability. There is simply much cigar gnashing and grinding of top hats in the acquisition and execution of this old lion.

Yeah, that's how we roll, sipping on rare stouts. Call the fucking police, see what they have to say about that shit.

Narrative: He stared fatefully out the window of the palatial estate. The sky lit up with rosy fingers of dawn and the trails of fire bombing from the night before. His cigar embers seemed to fall with the same careless regard that had afflicted all of those around him, a man, reduced to the headstone of a nation. “WILLIAM FOR FUCKS SAKE ARE YOU EVEN ON YOUR BREAK?” He snapped back to reality, the year is 2134 and in this advanced time, William Zerkov is an accomplished actor living in the pre-modern equivalent of a “frontier village.” It was his charge to play the role of, well, that would seem to belabor the point. “AND BEFORE THE NEXT SECREENING WILL YOU AT LEAST GET ANOTHER CIGAR, COME ON NOW WILLIAM!” He clenched his proud jowls, for no one could portray a pre-post historical figure not unlike him.

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Cascade Sang Royal, In Oregon they Call Sours a Royale With Cheese, They Have the Metric System.

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When I first started drinking sours, I would go fuck around and try those $20 normal Cascade sours, and they would beat my ass mercilessly. I landed this beer to show it I’m not afraid of it. It’s like Pennywise the Clown, except I’m getting drunk in California instead of Maine. Holy mixed metaphors.

Another gem from Oregon's artisan beer scene. WHERE THEY BE GETTING ALL THE CHERRIES FROM THO.

Cascade Sang Royal, 9.35% abv, Wild Ale

I can’t hype this beer anymore than saying it is a pretty rare sour and here’s what the bottle has to say about itself, unabashedly: “Sang Royal is a big NW Style Sour Red Ale that spends over six months of lactic fermentation and aging in oak wine barrels. Sang Royal is from select stock that is matured an additional six months in Port barrels and refermented on Bing Cherries.” Alright, let’s do this shit.

A: The appearance is a deep murky ruby that looks like a burnt brick color that barely gives up the ruby when you put some light on it. Give a guy some ruby, ya know? It’s got an eggwhite frothy head with microbubbles that dont go anywhere, they just post up in the chill zone and look all light maroon.

When I knew that there was a box with 4 of these gems coming to my house, I looked like this all week, watching for the Fedex man.

S: You get a sour fuji apple smell, tart candy, sour ropes, maraschino cherry, and sour warhead smells. This has a great smell to it and doesn’t introduce a wide bevy of funk to the olfactory aspects. The OLFACTORY IS OPEN FOR BUSINESS. If you agitate it, much like a Django Reinhardt concert, things get mildly funky.

T: This has a huge tart bite at the outset that reminds me of those skittles that used to be covered in sugar and road salt. It pans away to a wide shot of two cherries, both tart to the core acrimoniously discussing the ongoings of the plum factory. Starwipe to the headmaster grape who oversees the entire operation and roll the credits. This isn’t as sour as the lambic and crazy geuze painstrippers overseas but it is a great sour with tons of stone fruit and juiciness to it to compliment the initial sour shock that it presents. It’s like that movie KIDS, where you think it’s just gonna be overwhelming and shock footage but then they reel you in, except this beer doesn’t rape a teenage girl at the end. Oh, spoiler alert.

This beer is a hybrid of something badass and something dirty, but the result is a sick cherry massacre.

M: The mouthfeel is dry, as you can expect from something this juicy and tart, the old gumline deconstruction sets to work hard with those juicy juice notes drilling your soft enamel like pilsbury crescent rolls. AND YOU NEVER GET ENAMEL BACK.

D: This beer becomes more drinkable as it warms because the cherries finally get their shit together and stop letting sour just hit on their chicks and they mobilize an offensive. I could put away a bottle of this, but then the pesky lambic tum tum sets in and you get the bubbleguts due to the crazy acidity so I GUESS you should share this one. For the haters.

A couple bottles of this and I'd be communicating with a bell asking for more sour cherry potations.

Narrative: The broken Stairclimber took on a life of its own at this Winnipeg gym. Carl Delgado sat 10 meters away and just enjoyed the scene, shrewdly sipping his cherry smoothie, enjoying the deeply puckering acidity boosts that he added to it. “So obviously Kaitlyne is THREATENED BY ME-” a frail minx of 19 years prattled on into her iPhone while blindly ascending onto the 5 foot high platform. She was promptly served a platter of shit and swiftly caressed the sweet embrace of the collapsed stairs and recounted the potential for legal action to her equally vapid phone counterpart. Carl nodded and smiled, this was better than the entire CBS lineup. With this endless spring of dark, sour levity, how would he move on to other pursuits? He could watch college undergrads simply fall down all day long. A sip of sour cherry smoothie was all he needed to garner contentment in his soul.

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Cantillon Blabaer. After An Entire Year of Searching, I Finally Land My White Whale

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FINALLY. After an entire year of searching, countless internet posts, unsolicited mail sent to people all over the place, and Craigslist Casual Sour Encounters that went awry: I finally tried Cantillon Blabaer. This beer is rated #9 on the top 100 beers of all time and it is 2 scissoring bitches to land. This beer is made in cooperation with Jeppe from Olbuttikken in Copenhagen. Jeppe provides the blueberries for the beer,and it is brewed at Cantillon and then shipped back to Copenhagen and only sold at Olbutikken. There are only approximately 400 bottles sold each year, really fucking far away. That shit cray.

2009 vintage 750 ml with berries firing on all cylinders, tasting like escort gumline and Wild Grape Squeezits. THE WHITEST OF WALES.

Cantillon Blabaer, Fruit Lambic, 5% abv

This beer has a perfect 100 score on Beeradvocate and is one of the most sought after beers in the world. Raters gonna rate.

A: This has a murky deep ruby frothiness with a magenta head and deep plum hues. The lacing is minimal and the entire beer crackles with this acidic liveliness and it reminds me of that pit of acid that the Joker got pushed into in Batman, and it reminds me that I will probably never get to try this again. Just a bunch of Blabaerless nights listening to Jason Mraz and watching ABC Family.

With Cantillon you always think they pulled an adjunct jackmove, but no shooops here. All bugs, berries, and bitches.

S: The smell is largely acidic, acetyl, wet grass, morning rain, damp laundry, and really ripe boysenberries. I dont get the archetypical blueberry smell here but, not a single fuck could be located for comment.

T: The taste is fantastically tart and complex. At the outset there is a dry acrimonious funk that sets a nice straw and musky oeuvre that transitions into a boysenberry, tart blackberry, and really hard strawberry, the kind that pucker your face like a gushers commercial. I enjoy the smell more than the taste and it seems almost like Lou Pepe Geuze wearing a thin disguise, but the berries are a chill ass addition to what is already an incredible sour.

I tend to be overly critical with my beer reviews, but with a beer this flawless, reviews get all hard and shit.

M: This scorches and dries in that way that only Cantillon can. It would be tough to take down more than 12oz of this, but the depth of the taste is fulfilling and I enjoy how the fruits opened up as the beer warmed, LIKE YOUR MOM DOES WHEN SHE IS A LAMBIC. Sick burn.

D: How drinkable is this beer considering that it is impossible to land? Interesting question, you hateful interlocutor. But in all seriousness, I really liked this beer but I probably wont seek it out again. People want your entire cellar and a cup full of unmarked jizz for a bottle of this and my unmarked jizz simply is not for barter. I enjoy St. Lamvinus and Fou Foune more and they are (relatively?) easier to land. Again, this is all within the constraints of judging it as the best sour beer in the entire world, so take it with a GRAIN OF BLUEBERRY.

When you're expecting the best treat in the world, you're always setting yourself up for disappointment. Why you feelings.

Narrative: The bed and breakfast was a quaint cottage in rural Montana, which is essentially, redundant. The fields of lavender were verdant and moist with the tears of angels. It was the perfect place for Charles Montague to settle down and work on that UPN pilot he had been harshly instructed to complete. The premise of a family of produce canners that hit it big in the blueberry jam business seemed a bit thin, but Charles needed to air it out and hit the fields, see the shit firsthand. “Chalres, rook ova hai, broobaree brushes!” Ed Lu was the caretaker of the Bed and Breakfast and he spoke with a borderline offensive dialect that was entirely fabricated to make white people feel at home. “Yes Ed, thank you, stop, stop trying to put a blueberry in my mouth.” The pushed his hands into the bushes and communed with the tart fruit. He took a deep breath and simply couldn’t think of anything but Moesha re-runs. “DAMNIT CHARLES THIS IS THE BIGGEST THING YOU’VE EVER TACKLED, focus, or they will know if you phoned it in.” Suddenly Ed slid a yellow memo pad across the wet grass to Charles. “MY GOD, ED-” Ed Lu nodded with his offensive high ponytail and winked emphasizing “BROOBREEREES.” Charles knew that it was unorthodox to make an entire 13 episode arch based upon a reimagining of Blueberries for Sal but, THE NETWORK COULD FUCK ITSELF, this was his personal victory and it was his magnum opus.

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Odell Myrcenary Double IPA, Some say hops aren’t for wintertime, well they can hop their asses on out of here.

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This was one of those famed Double IPAs from Colorado that I always wanted to try but never wanted to set out to trade just for this beer. I waited and waited and it never appeared as an extra, UNTIL NOW. The stars aligned and a generous trader hooked me up with this old chestnut. THE RESULTS MAY HOP YOU.

I am not sure what this mycenary would accomplish aside from getting other soldiers really drunk. COVERT HOPS SHIT.

Odell Myrcenary Double IPA, 9.3% abv

A: The appearance is a bit strange for a double ipa and gives nice deep honey dark yellow glow. The brass and bronze let me know that this a regal affair and that tails are called for accordingly. The wispy head fogs up my monocle, but I ain’t even mad tho.

Good day Rocky Mountain residents, I do believe I may have shat myself near Breckingridge, have ye any hops?

S: The nose is amazing, sweet honey, lemongrass, biscuit malt, corn bread, and light pineapple. You get a slightly cinnamon finish which is relevant to my interests. I am adding this beer to my Friendster account.

T: The taste doesn’t blow me away like the nose but it is still very good. It is almost approaching that old American Barleywine standby in the respect that is had a huge malty base with a gentle sweetness like baked goods, but then hammers home some pine like a Bolivian housekeeper. THIS BEER DOESN’T DO WINDOWS.

The finish to this beer makes it seem like there was something missing, something amazing that could have been.

M: It is light enough to keep things interesting and doesn’t slow down for the credits, this short film just rocks your tastebud genitals all night long. The drying and herbal finish gives it a distinct lip smacking quality that is like Pina Colada chapstick that the officers will find on your person and that’s when the cuffs will feel too tight.

D: This is like a three strike combo that sets you up perfectly and then Urkels its so hard and messed up the finisher. You get the sweetness, nice hop bite and then, FUCKING GRASS TIME. Not like intercourse with grass, like tastes like gr- you know what, nevermind. I want this to be more drinkable but every swallow finishes with that bitterness, if you think I am going to pander with an oral sex joke here, you are only partly correct. The abv is masked quite well and I could see this beer making it outside, plays well with others, could get the uninformed pretty lit. It’s like the Bud light Platinum for the craft community I guess. WHICH ISN’T THAT BAD AT ALL.

This reminds me of other enjoyable things, but is good in its own right.

Narrative: Margaret and Ross Ignacio were concerned about their Nana’s new caretaker. Every time that they would visit her there would be a fragrant new citrus tree or hibiscus blossom in the front yard, it was beautiful, yet something was irksome. Nana was using technology and there were sure signs that Manuel was the one goading these pleasures. “Follow me on the twatter, I can retwat you” she would say obliviously. One day Manuel spied inspectingly through the stained glass window. “Nana, you never wanted to go on Adultfriendfinder.com before, what, how did you even hear about this?” Nana sipped her chamomile tea reflectively and began a tediously long story about war bonds. “Ok you know what, I dont want Manuel showing you the computer anymore” Nana sighed “oh well you should get on Myface, er put your space in my space.” Nana worked the computerbox assiduously and Manuel watched knowingly, the silent Hispanic mercenary that got old Nana into twisted internet porn.

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Bell’s Hopslam, Someone Went and Slammed All My Hops and Dreams.

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I have had this beer twice. Once I raped myself (beersturbation) bought one for $20 off ebay and it was 6 months old. That was hardly a fair tick, so I decided to trade for a new one, 2 weeks old and compare. The result is an ultra legit review.

I prefer my hops in a submission hold, but the hopslam is an excellent move as well.

Bells’ Hopslam DIPA, 10% abv

A: Mildly opaque golden hues, brighter and more apricot than most DIPAs and it doesn’t look exceptionally malty. Nice thick white cumulus head with huge thick lacing. It has a great look to it and you just want to bump some Ronettes and ask this beer why it wont be your little hop baby.

Everyone always talks about how the preivous year of Hopslam was better. It's a pretty solid beer but why they hatin?

S: Huge sweet hoppy character that comes off extremely saccharine and herbal. The hop cloud is like an olfactory bomb you can smell 18” away. It is vegetal in the end and a bit too herbal for my citrusy nose, but to each his own I guess.

T: There is an initial huge sweetness that isn’t exactly citrus, it tastes more funnel cake/cinnabon, then the herbal and lime flavors initiate into a great bouquet. The finish is a huge spinach and pine blast that just pangs of salad and fresh greens. It isn’t what I am seeking in a DIPA, but it is by no means offputting, again just different. I am not being a homer on this, my favorite IPAs are made in Vermont, it just isn’t for me.

Well well well, another ultra hopped beer you say? I'm listening...

M: For a beer this big it is incredibly drinkable. The mouthfeel isn’t overly coating or exceptionally filling, but the flavors are relentless. I want to drain my glass with increasing celerity ::pushes glasses up nose:: The coating is a sweet little mixed greens salad ninja. Staying on the greenest greens call this beer a vegetarian. All you smell is strange clouds.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and I would say that the ABV places it in leagues with several different classes of beers. This will warm you in the winter or cool you off with awesome refreshing sweet notes in the summer. Just fantastic all around; even with a bit of age it is still an impressor. It is much better fresh but again the lack of juicy childlike citrus puts it down a notch in my esteem but I can see why people who dont have access to fresh Pliny all the time would be all jazzed up about this.

Bells beer feels more inherently partiotic or american to me, something about the craftsmanship or the fact that it gets you excessively wasted. God bless the midwest.

Narrative: Sure, it wasn’t the WWE, but the triple title, welter weight tristate professional wrestling competition was nothing to sneeze at. The competitions behind the Tastee Freeze lacked the ambiance of a pure demonstrative environment for the masses, but the hum of the generator provided a mild lull for the public lacking dental insurance. A dim spotlight, spotlight loosely being referred to as a Belkin floodlight, shined furiously on the center of the canvas ring. A 9 year old girl swayed gently on the ropes awaiting the entrances. The smell of cut grass and grapefruit began to fill the baleful air, the mist of sticky herbal sweetness lingering within each patrons’ nose: Hopundertakehopper had arrived. He burst through the back bus room door and performed his classic flying maneuver, whose name needs no recitation at this juncture.

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Block 15 Imagine, I can’t IMAGINE a better stou-

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Toot toot, here comes the hype train. This beer was matured 9 & 21 months in bourbon barrels, there were 40 cases produced, released at the pub every other year, most recently November 2011. You can TASTE THE RARE. Tastes like Fedex bills.

This beer originally came in a fancy box, wrapped in fancy paper, in a..blank bottle? It's like a girl who wears Marciano but has no work done. Mislabeled.

Block 15 Imagine, Russian Imperial Stout, 15% abv

A: This doesn’t have a heavy oppressive look to it, a nice shiny wateriness similar to czar jack and where that 15% abv is hiding, I have no clue. There’s mild bubbles with a bit of 1/2″ lacing. The appearance is pretty tame and could be mistaken for a single stout, if you want to write on your friend’s face later. This beer has purpose. UNLESS IT IS JUST MY IMAGINATION.

At first, no one in Oregon would trade me this beer and I was all like-

S: This smells like the inside of a See’s candy factory, or what I imagine the inside of an Econoline van if I were 9 and blindfolded. There’s a huge fudge, brownie batter, just Charleston Chew, sticky gooey taffy, and a mild hint of bourbon. I IMAGINED that there would be a huge heat on this but, IT WAS JUST MY IMAGINATION.

T: There is a great chocolate initial taste that presents a sticky bake sale presence and you know it was the ultra hot soccer mom with no responsibilities that made it. The skillset is distinctively domestic. There’s a nutty almond middle to this and a light warming bourbon sensation at the end. I THOUGHT IT WOULD TASTE LIKE BOURBON BARREL PLEAD THE 5th BUT-, ok you get the bit? Alright. Moving on. IMAGINE PUNS.

Sometimes you get a bourbon barrel stout that is all sassy and silly, this is not the case, turn the above picture into an angry Samoan man who runs the yard with a substantial shank.

M: The mouthfeel is just light enough and doesn’t boss my palate around. It sticks just a bit, washes away with a bit more tenacity than Czar Jack and Stone IRS, but it doesn’t set up a homestead like Abyss or Black Tuesday, it handles it business like Juvenile and gets the fuck out of the game. You get your chocolate and bourbon, like that foul temptress barista, and then you’re on to drive a City Bus for a living, man shit.

D: This is scary drinkable and looks down its nose at Dark Lord and wags a knowing finger at my other favorite heavy hitter, Martes Negro. But then again, how drinkable is a beer that they made like 550 bottles of? OH I AM SORRY CAPTAIN MONEYBAGS. Enjoy your Block 15 hoard.

You think 15% is just a number, and then the colony drop happens after you kill 12 oz.

Narrative: Walter Percoletti crafted his homestead lovingly and dug his irrigation trenches deep. Some onlookers told him that the Salinas Valley was no place for cocoa beans and a whiskey distillery. “Kate! Turn that Usher CD down and get over here to the primary ditch!” The bitter beans stained the soil and soul a deep chocolate brown. The hardpan arose only 3 feet down and below that, God knows it could have been meteorite, the entire Salinas valley held a bed of carbon and sea sediment. The grain for the whiskey in the deep harsh central California summers were not faring any better. “Papa! Come quick! One of them stills done boiled over, Cotton Eye boiled a deep chocolate solution in the sour mash and done ruined the entire whiskey batch. The entire plume smelled of fudge and child rapists, drawing all of the children and local towns people to gaze at the billowing whiskey clouds. Cannery Row never felt the same with a malaise of deep bourbon and espresso raining down upon their GEORGE LENNY BLACK PEARL DUSTBOWL META TAG OVERLOAD.