Last week the owner of 18th street brewing and I had a discourse with an undercurrent of hostility and I elected to review another one of their offerings to determine if it was worth the $4.65 for a can of saison, or alternatively, if I am a huge prick. The two may exist concurrently. This offering is a collaboration with a brewery that I love, Arizona Wilderness, and I don’t know their interplay and I would rather judge this on its merits rather than throw rocks at trains and make dick jokes, the same tired Mikkeller finger pointing that this garbage blog usually embraces. Let’s take a blank slate and examine the nature of examination itself in today’s review.
18th street Brewery, and perhaps some involvement with Arizona Wilderness, who knows
Saison with lime, 7.2.% abv.
A: The beer is admittedly beautiful, in the way that anyone with a modicum of perception could decide for themselves. Perhaps it isn’t beautiful, far be it for me to offer up prescriptive statements about the nature of beer. To think this site would concurrently hold out a degree of aesthetic parameters and then ridicule the BJCP is laughable and lamentably sad at the same time. If you enjoy what you see, as I do, then we are both simply damned, our appraisals as worthless as grains of sand worn down in ever cascading waves.
S: I personally love the smell of this beer, the lime rind, the zest, the muddled citrus and lingering ester waft like a murky Brother Soigne, it easily justifies the price of entry, regardless of format or shithead blogger commentary. The closer is bitter and dry on the nose akin to grapefruit pith but the entire experience is highly refreshing and never lacks depth like hundreds of words cast daily upon an immutable surface, feeble attempts to avoid the pressing weight of time.
T: While no manner of validation can appropriate of enhance the value of anything created, the reverberate chorus can unflinchingly agree that this is delicious. Perhaps one gets a bitter mandarin orange, kiwi, kaffir mint, muddle mojito lime, and a complex bready profile like sweet cornbread is not for this site to say, maybe you taste chocolate. Who knows. This entire endeavor is an exercise of futility and false hubris.
M: This finishes dry with an intense lingering of key lime pie and slight yogurty creaminess that is very pleasant. Reading any website to inform you about endeavors of personal experience is foolhardy from the inception.
D: What is drinkable and enjoyable is an intensely personal journey and it would be futile to arrange a series of statements to tell you how to feel, you will find your own truth about a lime saison. I can never raise your perception to the sublime nor can i degrade it from the tragic, I am a mere lifeguard shouting inaudibly from the banks with inconsequential gestures, maybe I throw a lime, who gives a fuck. The very structure of reviews are inherently flawed and favor the creatives over the regressive. Lena Dunham snowball loads right in your mouth.
The petulant blogger rests the wanting fingertips upon the worn keys of the laptop, lifeblood of existence. The most recent offering still resonating upon the jawline, and the concepts attendant thereto, resonant and glaring balking for commentary, at least in the mind of that self important morass. While the lime and yeast danced platitudes, the underpinnings of accomplishment and creation were a secondary back biting from outside commentary. Try as one might, it remained entirely evident that the critic contributes nothing but a murky mirror, distorted and filtered, denaturing true art, pulling apart the seams at the expense of the whole garment. It ultimately draws paralells beyond the unknowable concept of “value” in life pursuits namely “can a critic ever serve a valuable purpose? can reflective criticism ever be art within itself? as the saison alludes, is criticism merely the zero calorie substitute for the danger and peril of actual creation?” The last point cuts the deepest and identifies an undercurrent in the shortcomings and feeling the lack of gravitas to one charged with criticism, namely perpetual commentary. The warmth of the farmhouse ale stands in ever more glaring contrast when the hollow shell of a commentator must contemplate ones own contributions, the attendant failures at countless endeavors, the sheer power of anonymity, the invulnerable shroud of caustic biting at the works of others, perpetual sand castle stomping while lacking the fortitude to ever lift a shovel in a meaningful way.
While cascading foam in unambitious circles, anyone can hammer out word counts to satiate the itch on a daily basis, this amorphous concept that somehow the secondary agent is pushing towards a teleological goal but knowingly remaining at the first pistol shot in true development, concerned with accomplishment but never committing to true meaningful assertion, caressing the easy content and swift praise but well aware that in almost every instance, the act of dissection can rarely rise above creation. Every saison sip a testament to the cold fingertips resting in inaction in a world of perpetual development. In even the most lackluster brown ale lies the existence and essence predicated therein, no matter how bad, it is paint upon a canvas and there isnt the same true grade of value in acerbic dissection, no matter how knowledgeable.
The menthol smoke draped the tired IKEA furniture around the laptop. All was still except the carbonation dancing mockingly in the glass. Art and moreover living a meaningful existence predicated on anything worthwhile is, for most people a topic that is either never broached or properly addressed. The aluminum can, regardless of price, was a satyricon of discontent. It underscored the nature of “contributions” but inspired concurrently with the gauntlet lain at the feet of all to see the shades and gradations of ability. Those who can do, and those who cant, etc., a million tired epithets, and watching the self reflective perpetual drag of uprising bubbles represented a million vignettes into wasted ability, every bursting c02 bubble a testament to the endless drag of chronology and the futility of commentary.