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Crooked Stave Fertile Soil, Casting Fertile Seeds on Even More Fertile Soil

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My friend Sean sent me this in a huge box of Colorado’s finest and I had to give a nod to this well-done beer. Got me feeling more fertile than a 32 chamber indoor growing system in Chico, California.

DIFFERENT SETTING, don't worry, you're still on the same shitty pedantic website, no cause for alarm.

Crooked Stave Fertile Soil, Dry Hopped Belgian Golden Ale, 7%

A: This has a nice golden sheen to it but the real star here is the carbonation, holy hell, so pleasing the the eye and palate. Nice wispy lacing like a Victorian antechamber.

This beer is strange, but complex. The level of refreshment indicates craftsmanship from serious ale healers.

S: There’s a great hop presence with aserose, pine, mild grassiness and some sweet honey backing from the malt. If I had a lawn, I would watch it grow while enjoying this beer.

T: This has a great woody/herbal character to it that doesn’t distract from the base beer. I dont know if the yeasty esters were supposed to shine through, because they don’t really, but it is still spectacular as a result.

I didn't expect a whole lot initially, but then this beer blew me away when it slapped my shit.

M: This has a nice crackly bubbliness to it that washes away clean only leaving some residual crackery notes and a huge pinecone for you to ruminate on. Extreme Mouth Makeover, your mouth is now a green house, enjoy.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and I wish I had another bottle, but oh well, mo brewin mo problems. I ain’t even mad though. The 750ml seems spot on and I don’t think this would be out of place in 6 packs. This was one of like 850 bottles so giving it unqualified praise is kinda a dick move but, seek it out I GUESS.

This beer is mature, yet light and refreshing at the same time. Adult tea party libations.


Narrative: The days at the Ring Pop factory were unremarkable. The ongoings of average plastic ring fabrication and the precious experience needed to craft saccharine jewels were something that lost its luster early in Waylon Winters’s terminally boring factory job. He always saw himself as more of a Pushpop sort of jeweler, or hell, he was musically inclined and Melody Pops were not entirely out of the question either. One day while performing his routine tank cleaning a case of watermelon gems spilled and he went about recollecting this precious bounty. One jewel rolled behind a corn syrup tank and, upon further reflection, he noticed a heavy door left ajar. Waylon walked with quiet reverence into this private chamber and looked in awe upon the sheer motherload of confectionary jewels adorning the chamber. It was like the Aladdin of diabetes and he looked with baited breath at a 7lbs blue raspberry Heart of the Ocean replica. “So you like what you see?” a voice boomed into the chamber and Waylon turned around to see the master jeweler, Ralph Stickery, sucking lazily upon a sticky candy broach on his shirt. “Well, you will probably want to know how all this is possible Waylon, this magic plant-” he produced a tiny bougainvellia-looking plant that was quickly budding and producing a series of candy gem buds. “It is the plants that make the sweetness and the herbs that control the craft, I trust this floral secret will remain between us.” Waylon nodded and licked a candy scepter in an unsuggestive manner.

1

Hill Farmstead Damon, DAMON…Matt….Day…mon….

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Ok, so not to thoroughly beat this equine subject, but I love this brewery. They could bottle 4Loko with Hershey’s syrup in it and call it an imperial stout and I would still come running, Fedex account in hand. This beer is no exception. Let’s see what happen when the demigods in Vermont put that midas touch to one of my favorite styles: Huge Bourbon Barrel Imperial Stout. A new challenger appears…

This takes the prize as the most ridiculous bottle to open, dethroning that BA Shipwreck Porter. Dem wax. It had 5 coats like Lithuanian teenager sold into sex trafficking. Too soon.

Hill Farmstead Damon, Imperial Stout 10.5% abv

A: This looks beautiful like a fresh slab of obsidian that those rakish Hawaiians just harvested for kitschy jewelry creation. Nice deep black with roast mocha foam that is understated, yet classy, like a La Coste thong. The head takes a full 30 seconds to realize that it needs to get its shit together and finally rises to the surface reluctantly. The lacing looks incredible like that snarky liberal arts girl whose work you didn’t care much for but the substance lingered on. You know, her.

Matt....Day...Mon....Daymon.....MATT....Day....

S: The smell is like fresh brownie batter whipped up with grampa’s hooch. The smell has the note of fresh Tollhouse cookies, with a bittersweet toffee note. The whole smell reminds me of a See’s Candy Toffee Sucker. God damn, anthropomorphism makes me want to give this beer a big old smooch. Do you remember in Melrose Place where there was always a fire or amnesia or some shit always going down? Well this has that sweet and simple feel but with a ton of other elements in play and it is fucking excellent like a 50/50 lipslide into a fakie manual.

T: The taste is like licking the bowl from some sweet nana’s cookies, and nana has residual drinking problems from the great war. Also, the malts impart this subtle roastiness that nudge at you like that little voice that tells you it’s ok to drink because it is Flag Day. There’s this final finish where bourbon shows up in a flourish with confetti and cocoa coronation fanfare. The taste is like that Master P video Make Em Say Uhh, where there’s a great robust profile and cast of interesting events that you want to ruminate on its efficacy.

This is officially Moar Certified.

M: The mouthfeel just gets all carnival and sticky real quick. Someone went and scooped up some of the La Brea tar pits, jumped into Kentucky for some fine bourbon, hopped up to Pennsylvania for that aforementioned chocolate. The mouthfeel doesn’t overstay its welcome. It’s like a friend who stays, makes out with a chick on your couch and when you’re just about to get mad, BOOM, sheets folded and he’s gone. The shamiest of walks.

The proud lineage continues in this beer.

D: This is absurdly drinkable. It is outrageous in the classic sense of the word, causing outrage. I look at my bank account, then the trade forums, then my cellar, ad infinitum and it makes me staunchly aware of my needledick that I am swinging in the beer trade world for this amazing potation. I just want to post up with these all day long. This reminds me of a gentle version of BB Plead the Fifth, with hand holding and it pops the door locks for you. Now slap it on my ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass, and make that mother fucker Damontime.

This beer blows my mind. Damonception.

Narrative: Damon looked balefully upon his colleagues poised in a tight circle. Lunches on the quad never seemed so long he was ousted from the magic: The Gathering society. Those 43 minutes ticked by with a painful awareness of the liches that were being summoned, the artifacts utilized, and don’t even get Damon started on the sheer potential for enchanted creatures. “Hey Damon” a pigeontoed youth with a screen print shirt reading “5 Dollar Footlong” with a tasteful arrow pointing down approached Damon. “Hey so uh, some of us other guys were gonna start up a Yu-Gi-Oh league an-” “GOD DAMNIT Clarence! What do I look like? A CHILD. You dont have to start some RC COLA LEAGUE to supplicate my self esteem!” Clarence looked to the ground and sheepishly retreated, clutching his deck ruefully. Damon had a heart of darkness and several booster packs worth of rares. However, deep down there was a loving, entreating spirit who could guide others into something amazing. Damon walked over to the circle of disapproving glances and looked down at the match in progress. “Royal Assassin in a blue deck? Good luck with that,” Damon quipped as he dropped a Timewalk into the circle and the masses jubilantly cried out at the sight of a rare and banned card from earlier days. One headgeared, poxfaced individual placed a hand on Damon’s shoulder “Heysh Daymonsh, you’re and shalright guy, you know thasht?” he said, spitting on Damon’s Type O Negative shirt. Damon nodded and all was right again, he was free to summon his loving darkness upon the masses.

1

Avery Recolte Sauvage, Oscar Wilde Ale, It is Tart; but Sassier

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Avery keeps rolling out these batches of tiny, super-esoteric batches of beer that people rate extremely highly and I feel like that fat kid pressing his face to the bakery window, just looming on the sweet treats foreboding inside. Finally a friend hooked me up and I gave some Kern River goodness and both parties had tasted the rockies, respectively. This is a beer aged with Cabernet Sauvignon Grapes and then aged in Cabernet Sauvignon barrels. Basically…wine.

An immature palate wanders into the world of wine reviews...


Avery, Recolte Sauvage, Barrel Aged Wild Ale, 11% abv

A: This seriously looks exactly like Juicy Juice. Just straight up grape juice from concentrate. I guess I could make a parallel to some Merlots but really, it looks like a deep purple, no maltiness or carbination, just juice through and through, like Tupac.

There seems to be a bit of a scheme going on here to dupe the beer consumer. Maybe I am the only one.

S: The waft is of a tannic astringency, it goes to the black cherry, then dark grape varietal and lands on an acetyl tartness at the end. It reminds me of a Consecration whose balls have been pressed fully to the wall. If you prefer your testicles wall-mounted, I have a beer for you.

T: Looks like a duck, smells like a duck, wait for it. . .tastes exactly like wine. like a beer that was made with grapes, very little malt and then aged in wine barrels without yeast. Seriously, this is basically a wine with a mild bread profile. I don’t like being tricked into being a mediocre 30 something talking about Nurse Jackie episodes. This shit went Cougartown really quickly. It has a huge acerbic finish not in the cool “oh like a Cantillon St. Lamvinus?” no, like drinking a straight up glass of Kendall Jackson Cab. I look at my one time friend, the beer looking all entreating, tricking me with its vinous foul play.

Above: one of the best RPG's of all time, if you ask me to list the best wines ever, I am at a loss unless Sephiroth is involved.

M: Have you ever tasted Cabernet Sauvignon? Well, shake it up a bit to gain some bubbles and there you go. This is literally 80% wine and 20% hateful potation. The entire glass has a deep violet hue, there’s no lacing, I am way out of my territory here and I fear wineblogs are closing in, airlock is opening, if anyone reads this space station message, just tell them, I have always hated wine. . .in every…way…

D: Well again, this is determined by the nature of your very existence. I feel like I am trapped at an educational mixer with the traditional red wines, those chuckles and heel rocking with the effusive gestures. It is a perpetual “cool” PTA meeting with the notes of tannins that dry a bit and I COULD drink a lot of this, but moreover, I dont want to. It isn’t because it is bad, far from this, it is well executed but…I have the palate of a 21 year old boy. If you give me nice things I will bury them and spike stock certificates in the ground and eat Kraft Macaroni. It is my own shortcoming, not this beer’s.

Ultimately, I have ran out of arguments against wine so I shelter myself with beer to appear more intellectual. This has never happened before.

Narrative: Janice Roth was a recent divorcee, proud in demeanor, light in expression lines, stern in demeanor. Her 6 year-old minx did not trouble her much and she still served respectfully within InGeniDyneDCorp. as a regional semi-vice-personnel overseeing director. A title she held in cold reverence. Janitors would tip their caps in an almost anachronistic reverence of Mrs. Roth and as she piled into her comfy leather highbacked chair she exhaled sharply. “Janey Janey, when did it come to this?” she ruminated to herself as she operated the corkscrew within her desk to open a Chateau Margeaux, not the ’95 the ’96. She sipped the tonic judiciously and looked out the window ingratiatingly upon the foot traffic below. “The man you loved ran away, you have two beautiful girls who adore you, but something feels so wrong-” she knocked the bottle over and watched the crimson liquid gather in stern liquid rivulets. The sum value of her being was collected in this trivial libation. She had been reduced to episodes of the Bachelor and listening to Jason Mraz mixtapes. This was her inherent value after years and years of sacrifice. And then- she gets hit in the crotch or takes a pie in the face to still make this a comedy narrative, right? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? WELL TOO BAD SAD DIVORCEE STORY IS TODAY’S NARRATIVE.

0

Hill Farmstead, Arthur Saison, A Rustic Farmhouse Crusade

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Like a moth to a flame, I cannot resist any offering from this brewery for the simple fact that across all styles they always deliver. It’s like the sure thing, someone sets you up with a friend who is into pilates, chances are the stage is set for something unhorrific. Wait, wait, I am generalizing, I have never taken pilates nor have I tried the entire HF lineup, shucks.

Arthur and hundreds of crusaders died just to taste this sweet libation. Thanks a lot Mr. Hill.

Hill Farmstead, Arthur, saison, 6% abv

A: As usual, Hill Farmstead has turned out a beautiful beer with a deep golden radiance that has some brassy translucence. The carbonation is frothy like an egg drop sour with soapy lacing like when you bathing the chillums and they as lively as bedbugs.

There is a whimsical aspect to this beer, but deep down you know that it is all business.

S: There’s a distinct herbal notes almost like evergreens, light funkiness like a wet Jansport backpack, and finally some dry esters. The whole affair seems crisp and sterile like surgical gloves, each note is in its place and tagged. The mastery from this old farm is noteworthy.

T: The taste has a nice herbal snap to it like walking on twigs in the verdant Vermont pastures. There’s a super dry Belgian ester note that reminds me of clove or sage, must be the new yeast. It makes a light arid beer like this feel more at home in the wintertime. The lingering flavor is a light crackery finish, again, an entirely satisfying affair. It’s tough to make quips and cracks when a beer is just dead on, I have some serious first world beverage dilemmas going down here. Boo hoo, this limited saison is too delicious to make fun of on the internet. sob sob.

It is wildly inappropriate how refreshing this beer is. Why must Vermont be so far away?

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and light with a nice brackish feel to it. It isn’t salty in a gose way, but it certainly has its own salinity that I gather is from the Vermont well that I am so fond of. The mouthfeel is hard, much like the rest of their lineup and I love the mineral finish because it is muted but accents all of the acidity and hops going on. Like that tonguekiss from the local coal miner who is nice enough, but come on, all up in your mouth?

D: This beer is incredibly drinkable and even in this bitter winter where you can hardly sit outside for an hour in the stinging dull sunglight, I could still muster up the strength to request more of these. The alkaline finish and hop balance act in tandem and just push this saison over the top. I guess on a minor level, the 750ml format isn’t ideal but hey a beggar and his chooser are soon parted.

If you start knocking off liquor stores looking for this precious beer, there's a few things that you should know about dealing with police.

Narrative: The violet hibiscus flower swayed lazily in the breeze and hugged the ocean currents longingly. It was that charming interval in between the crest of winter and the break of spring with its life giving rains to satiate the soil of the land. And then those fucking white thistle buds moved in. Generally speaking, a “weed” is a subjective term, without any classification value, since a plant that is a weed in one context is not a weed when growing where it belongs or is wanted. But just the way that these stupid fucking thistles spread their tacky thorny brambles about the sediment bed seemed to rob the entirely majesty of the Lent season. As if that weren’t bad enough, the younger zygotes budding and making a mess all over the place, then invite those godforsaken dandelions to commune with them under the regal hibiscus branches. It was all fun and games of toleration until finally one of the children plucked the dandelion reproductive spore and blew it all over the the wanting peat. Now it was going to be nothing but lowbrow commoners and ticky tacky flora of all varieties. The hibiscus were racist as the day was long but, if one did not maintain purity in Genus, what was one reduced to, Order?

0

Midnight Sun Arctic Devil Barleywine, . . .And the Devil Makes Three.

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Well it was only a matter of time before this angry beast showed up. It is a top 100 beer that took me a while to land but once I did, the maltgina was never the same. Initially I traded a 2011 Black Tuesday for the 2008 Arctic Devil and people were clowning me like I bought a Better than Ezra T shirt, acting like i got all ripped off. The 2008 was gentle and caressing, but that makes for boring ass reviews, let’s look explicitly at the asshole version: 2011.

Running with the Devil.

A: This has a nice wateriness to it like the beginnings of a boozy Arnold Palmer. It has some ruby hues at the edges but the center is all business heavy malt. The wispy carbonation falls off faster than Aubrey O’ Day. There is no lacing and it’s a fairly spartan affair as far as appearances go, unlike Aubrey O’ Day.

If you kill an entire bottle of this to yourself, be prepared to look and sound like this.

S: Wow this beer takes you to the candyshop. There is a deep burnt caramel and sweet brown sugar like mammy just made some cream of wheat for you to mash on. Mama lets me lick the spoon.

T: The sweetness pokes its head out for a moment and imparts a molasses, maple, and toffee flavor that quickly ducks back into its hole for the malty winter that sets in. This maltverine knows how to dish out the bitter and the sweet concurrantly. That wasn’t a typo, there’s a nice hoppy dryness and a currant note to it as well, not infection, but in the tannic manner. I previously had a 2008 bottle of this and I am now scrapping that entire review because this beer is COMPLETELY different like in an Urkel vs. Stefan way. The 2008 way boring, muted, smooth, and predictable. I like this crazy, boozy, erratic Urkel version way more, there’s a lot more Jaleel White malt up in this bitch.

It's tough to accurately describe how good this is, so, here's some pics of iguanas in sexy poses.

M: There’s a nice oakiness to this beer that dries but at the same time presents a pulpit for the saccharine notes to preach from in a perfunctory manner. I can’t really focus on how the carbonation or coating is because this is such a complicated ass beer, just from typing this sentence some new banana esters starting rolling in as the beer warms and they are welcome. The booziness is a bit intense but it is welcome to separate the men from the bitchly wines. It’s funny that, for a beer called Arctic Devil, it actually tastes way worse at colder temperatures. They should call this lukewarm devil and people will be more on the rails for how to serve it.

Mmm well my devil certainly isn't Arctic.

D: Well, take all of this in the context of a 13.4% beer: this is amazingly drinkable. It is not like a hef on a hot summer day after you just got done beating your children for leaving the hose on, not that level of refreshment, but for the cold 65 degree winter I am suffering through right now, it hit the spot better than a run on sentence.

This tease in his tiny bed.

Narrative: Clayton was raised in suburban Ohio and always dreamed that his mediocre bar chords and major melody driven pop tunes would catapult him to the same fame that Hootie and the Blowfish once enjoyed. But a Darius Rucker he was not and reality set in, in the particular Ohio way wherein he informed all his friends that he was going to make it in Los Angeles. Spoiler alert: his accoustic guitar was not on par with Puddle of Mudd and therefore, in the strict hierarchy or talent = success that is the music industry, he was resigned to work at Chili’s. Finally, in a night of desperation he left work after having a few too many hard Mango Ice Teas, and stumbled upon the Westwood streets, which was practically what they were designed for. In his moment of weakness an opaque badger appeared before Clayton. “Are you my spirit animal?” he muttered through the smell of cheap gin. “Clayton, long have I waited for this moment of desperation, your place is amongst the caribou in the upper reaches of this planet,” the badger noted remonstratively. “But why snow badger, on those times when I needed you most I saw only 2 sets of pawprints in the snow?” “You see Clayton, it was those times when you drank 4loko and were the most wasted, that I carried you.” Clayton nodded and knew that frostmourne hungered for arctic adventures. The Anchorage police retrieved his body from a Mitsubishi Mirage just weeks later and the autopsy report unprofessionally noted the cause of death as “Suicide, kinda?…X-D”

1

Hill Farmstead, Society and Solitude, Ralph Waldeezy Emerseezy would be proud

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If you haven’t caught the vibe just yet, I ride Hill Farmstead’s jock like a Sybian. I will seek out anything and everything that they release for the simple reason that every, single, thing that I have had from them has been nothing short of amazing. The only beer that was a B+ to me was Jim and that was still an amazing beer, just not suited to my palate. So here we go, another world class Double Black IPA, inspired by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Some prefer Society, others prefer Solitude, and then some people prefer both and have to issue apologies for Party Rockin.

Hill Farmstead, Society and Solitude, Black Double IPA, 9.5% abv

A: At first glance this looks like someone fucked up and sent me Everett and I am about to spend 25oz in Porterville. Not the central California mountain town. Then you pour a little bit and shit turns arboreal very quickly. The beer cascades from the swingtop growler in a needlessly descriptive stream of jet black with mellow mahogany at the edges and the user ponders where the line between charred malt and hop usage places his palate in this penumbra of capricious tastes. The carbonation is dead on, not too much, not too sparse and the lacing looks like a monochromatic Jackson Pollack work. She is a thing of beauty, fuck Stella.

Just the smell and look of this beer takes you to a magical far away place of verdant fields and floral culture, Didney Worl.

S: This is interesting beyond belief. Most black IPAs I shirk off in a cantankerous manner, upturning my mandible and tightening my lips. This thing is the real deal. I thought double dry hopped Stone Sublimely Self Righteous did not have fuck arounds to spare, but this thing is in the poor house if fuck arounds were currency. It comes right out with a pine that subsides into a chocolate waft, just when you think shit is tame: a MINT NOTE. I am dead serious, then some juniper and finally the citrus grapefruit I was looking for, all in all its like the craft aisle of Michaels went into a blender and then was coated in Godiva chocolate, and it is fucking amazing.

T: The taste just carries out the complexity and the bitter and sweet zones of your mouth are already dividing up the tenancy in common because they can’t agree on shit. It starts with a nice english stout or american porter charred chocolate roastiness that, upon swallow turns into this epic Mars Volta solo of herbal notes and again, fucking MINT and juniper are present. To bookend the experience, the chocolate delivers a nice eulogy to the sip and your tastebuds mourn the loss. But shit is on again real soon, to the tune of 24oz more.

This beer gives me so many feels. Feels like I am in gay Paree, feels like Vermont, feels like Chocolate Factoree.

M: The mouthfeel is similar to a heavy DIPA or a thin imperial porter. God damn, if I wasn’t so lazy I would make a line graph but, just use your imagination, I shouldn’t have to make an App for every aspect of description. The bitterness from the hops lingers far longer than the bakers chocolate aspect and I like it more that way, the coating feels lighter as a result and suddenly a 750ml growler seems pretty insubstantial. It’s like if you’ve ever dated a girl who just gets on your nerves and you bemoan every visit to Chick Fil-A with her, but when she goes away to her Mormon mission, you have a tiny Latter Day Saint Shaped hole in your heart. You know the feeling.

D: This beer is incredibly drinkable for how ambitious the flavor palate is. For all the mint, chocolate, pine, grapefruit madness going on, the glass seems to have a mild leak, directly into my mouth. However, I don’t know if I should rate this relative to the other Hill Farmstead offerings since the 2 Liter growler of Galaxy that I drank, by myself, was gone instantly and all my characters were power leveled when I woke up the next morning. It was like the RPG fairy just changed the game on me. So yeah, super drinkable.

Hill Farmstead beers always strike me as so distinctly American and I am always left with that lingering suspicion and sadness when the growler is empty. Get beers from Vermont they said, pay Fedex bills from California they said.

Narrative: After losing his job at the pencil factory Gunnar Taylorson was at a loss with what to do with himself. His degree in American Studies did not seem to evoke the sense of awe and prestige that he had predicted, despite graduating from the inimitable University of Florida, an institution practically enshrined in American Study. After long hard thought and several days at the EDD and unemployment offices, Gunnar resolved to set forth into the everglades and open a boutique herboreum. His business plan was simple, venture deep into protected government lands, uproot rare plants, grind them down into a consumable paste without FDA approval, and then sell it within interstate commerce: a bulletproof scheme. The first concoctions largely just caused blindness and erections that lasted more than 4 hours, and he felt like a failure. “GOD DAMNIT GUNNAR, the hell were you thinking, a deep south apothecary? You should have just went and worked at the Waffle House fer fucks sake!” he would think to himself. One day, while speeding about on his stolen pontoon boat he came across a rare hibiscus flower in the shape of someone flipping you off. “Well fuck you flower,” he quipped as he pulled the lot of them from the roots. He sold them piecemeal to passers by and it soon became apparent that Gunnar had stumbled upon a tactile halucinogen. The south never seemed so interesting or so racist as when you viewed the scope of nature with your fingertips in a Baton Rouge AMPM.

0

Charleville Vineyards And Microbrewery, Box of Chocolate, Mama Always Said Life Was Like a Box of Cliches

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I remember seeing this beer tearing up the billboard charts last year and I never quite understood what was going on. Ok so it is a quad, so there’s gonna be some pitted fruits and deep malts and, oh wait what? No it’s chocolate. So it’s a stout? No, it’s a quad. Yeah see, fucking confusing. Anyway, I finally traded for one and here are the results, NESTLE` your ass into this review.

See what I did there? CONTEXT IMAGES, hot chocolate on chocolate action. GOD DAMN IT IS SO META.

Charleville Vineyards And Microbrewery, Box of Chocolate, Quadruple, 10.5% abv

A: This seriously looks like Coca-Cola Classic. Next section. Ok fine, it has a mild wateriness that is black in the center and darker at the edges. The lacing is minimal and there’s a big watery profile going on with middle effervescence throughout. It doesn’t look like a quad, but that’s what the Temecula boys said before they broke their necks on those sick dune runs.

This beer is all good and fun with your friends but drinking it alone you just get hit by the caramel refuse truck.

S: There is some chocolate, but moreover I get a sticky sweetness more like maple syrup or burned caramel. I have definitely encountered more chocolatey monsters than this offering as far as noses go. August Gloop would be disappointed as all hell.

T: Ok there we go, even at a very chilly temp, the chocolate comes through and. . .that’s about it. You get a very mild caramel finish but it is seriously just a one note chocolate that fades into cocoa and caramel. I don’t to make a Rolo comparison because those are more sticky and decadent but this is a watery rolo, it has the chocolate going on, but if you’ve ever had Chocolate Rain, this will seem like the anemic artsy brother who is into interpretive dance chocolate. Not the hardcore 85% shit.

I was so jazzed for some decadent treat, and while the chocolate was still very present, I was all like-

M: This is incredibly watery and almost comes off closer to a porter in mouthfeel with less roasted malts. The sweetness gets a bit old after about 5 ounces and this is clearly meant to be shared. No one ever sits down to this much chocolate unless she’s single on 2/14 and there happens to be Lifetime marathon on. There is this lingering Dr. Pepper finish that makes me assert that this soda character is there through and through with the syrupy notes on the finish. But it’s like the busser fucked up and didn’t put the co2 mix right on the soda machine because it gives too much chocolate caramel and not enough xanthan gum.

D: I guess if you are at a 5th grade sleepover, this would be ideal. However, if you are bringing 10.5% craft beer to a sleepover with 10 year-olds, we have some other things to discuss. The more this warms, the thinner that the beer feels and the big old box of chocolate that I was expecting is turning more and more into a bag of Mr. Pibb concentrate. It doesn’t paint the walls with decadence, it just leaves a mild wateriness that sprays away with the gentlest of Shamwow treatments.

It is so much chocolate and burnt soda goodness, I can't handle this formidable bomber alone. Halp plz.

Narrative: The rain streaked small rivulets down the pane of Jericho’s hazy window. Phoenix never received this much rain and ever since he received that debilitating text message, it seemed to pour even harder. Jericho aka Faded J aka the Feeze had a budding hip hop career in the strictest sense of the word, a graft planting really. He tried unsuccessfully to learn Fruity Loops, then audio forge, then a simple Casio keyboard, until ultimately he decided that Arizona needed a pure lyricist. Notwithstanding the foregoing, his girlfriend dumped him after a staggering 5 months of these charades. “Jericho, your raps sound like change in a dryer and have the rhyme structure of an E.E. Cummings epic,” she would rail at him while he tapped out his sonnets on a Pringles can, crafting his magnum opus, 300 bars dissing a variety of movie theater chains for overcharging on concessions. “Your candy aint even sick, why you always, even, I mean, I am just here posted up chilling with my chick, not a bitch, but you know, like, Cookie Dough bites for like what, sometimes $4.50. . .well fuck that shit.” The local manager of the AMC autotuned the flows and received over 500,000 hits, at poor Faded J’s expense. Now he was sitting caressing the case of Cookie Bites that was sent to him in concession, the bitter chocolate underscoring the pain on his mediocre existence.

3

Flossmoor Station Barrel Aged Hifi Rye, Keeping it Hifi and I am not even in the Bay

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This beer was a behind the lines sniper that I saw everyone requesting and I tuned it out until OH SHIT TOP 100 STATUS. Then I realized that it was only 500 bottles and a total bitch to acquire. But I did, so here we are. Just another day in the life of a gosh darn boss.

Oh I think they Hi-fee, giving all my friends high-fi's.

Flossmoor Station, BA HIFI (as the kids call it) 11% abv, Barleywine

Before we get underway, I just want to say, I built a bookcase while drinking this by myself (foreveralone.jpg) and the construction got worse as the night went along, but got more awesome as well.

A: This has a deep dull copper color to it that seems appropriate for the style but at the same time feels a bit too capricious and wispy. I dont get that danger like when I pour Arctic Devil and know shit is about to go off. I know there’s shit, its going off potential remains in dispute. The lacing is as lackluster as that fucking annoying Foster the People album that people with no music taste insist on telling you about on Spotify. Except this is actually well done.

At first this beer seemed huge and imposing, but then you realized it had a heart of gold. Adorable and sticky.

S: There’s some of the obligatory notes with the old toffee, marshmellow, burnt brown sugar, light caramel, and some weird sweetness that subsides into…wait for it…when it warms it turns into this delicious chamomille tea aspect. It might be the cardamon. Allegedly there’s some rye aspect and some ginger family up in this mix but I just get a general smooth sweetness. It reminds me of bigger, burlier barleywines, but with a gentle veneer to it. Like that old Lane Bryan model with a heart of gold.

T: The taste is incredibly well done, the sweetness is balanced out by a mild herbal aspect from the rye and you are left sipping on it, hammering away at your carpentry. This is far far better once it warms up. Don’t even bother trying to chill it down like a Russian Imperial Stout, go straight to 3rd base with this bitch. The barleywine not a pejorative statement launched at those of the YY chromosomal order.

Meeser Hi-Fi,...eh...no....no...

M: This doesn’t go over the top with mouthfeel, the coating is generous but doesn’t go so far with it that it becomes sticky sticky, which is appreciated in this market where everyone just wanted to get sticky sticky on your nono. There’s a crispness from the rye that imparts a mild dryness that makes you want to drink more, but therein lies the paradox, if you drink more, you want more and then you aint got no mo. Quite the business model Flossmoor. Hats off.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and this is where it stands head and shoulders above the tank, damage absorbing bretheren. This is more of a cross over from epic DIPAs and hardcore BA barleywines and the result is this hybrid monster that cannot be destroyed. It’s like when people make the super wise financial decision of dropping a $12,000 engine into their janky ass integra, except, this cost less than 1% to that effect.

Yet ANOTHER top 100 beer? How many beers can there be on this stupid ass list? Well, keep reading to find out.

Narrative: We shall see.

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2007 Michelob Cherry Lager, I’ll Take You To The Cherry Shop, Let You Lick the Lager Pop

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Well Saints alive, what rare vintage have we been blessed with today? You read the foregoing correctly, a delicious Michelob Cherry Lager, aged for 5 years in a lava lamp. Shit is getting real in an around the field.

Some things age gracefully, like a sweet persian cat whos- ok I can't do it, this ages about as well as a Bolivian coal miner.

Michelob Celebrate Cherry Lager, Fruit Beer, 8.5% abv

A: I think it is ironic that they call this beer Celebrate because usually “Michelob” and “2007 lager” are not the things I would begin whipping up the cake batter for. This thing looks like the type of thing that savvy professional bowlers buy for their harem of harlots. It’s like if Sonic Burger started selling alcoholic drinks and their first foray was in ornate packaging. The bottle itself looks like a depleted uranium shell or a marital aid, depending on how freaky you like your shit. No lacing, no sheeting, mild carbonation: drink a cup of grenadine for the haters.

I just don't trust this beer after seeing the bottle and smelling what it is up to.

S: This smells like cherry lime aide and gives a distinct waft of bubble bath. If you you’ve ever chewed a piece of (yipes stripes) Fruit Stripe gum, you’ll know exactly what is going on here. The amount of hating upon the player that is your olfactory system is staggering. The finish is like if an escort spit a Sucrets into your nose holes and gave you a deep Fruit by the Foot smooch.

T: Alright well, you ever have an awkward hook up that shouldn’t have happened, and you regret it, but at least you get breakfast afterwards? Well this is like that except you don’t get breakfast. This tastes like some old fruit roll-ups left in the sun, or perhaps a blowpop dipped in 4Loko, which by all accounts, is far too many Lokos. It reminds me of those sour ropes in the lingering distaste in my mouth that I usually associate with Jody Foster movies.

Just from its appearance alone, you know your mouth is about to get violated.

M: This was a fleeting experience, but I found myself pointing out on the cherry doll in court where the bad man touched my palate. No matter how much imperial stout I drank afterwards, it still hung around like a vengeful roommate, taking all my Crate and Barrel catelogs. Shit was not bitches. I could see Lil B the Based God loving something like this, sipping it judiciously through his well appointed gem-laden grill. But for the rest of us, I can just snort Mountain Dew Code Red and be done with it.

D: Spoiler Alert: I did not want to drink a lot of this shit. It was juicy juice nightmare and I can’t recommend a return forary into this western theater. The cherries were sickening and the lager base didn’t help matter much with a malt complexity. It just shirked there in the courner shaking awaiting for the cherry domestic violence to stop. I can thank my good friend Eric Hammond for this gem. I gave him Funky Buddha Raspberry Berliner, and this is the fruit treat that I received in return. Equitable exchanges.

This should have been obvious from the start, a 2007 vintage lager from Michelob? Shitstorm from the inception.

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Bear Republic Racer X, My X Racer Took All of My Staind CDs.

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This beer has FINALLY been bottled, after many requests but then they go and don’t ship it outside of the bay area, so oh well for the rest of us UNLESS YOU GOT MAD SOLDIERS IN THE TRAP SHORTY. I once bought a growler of this and the girl serving it told me that it would hold up well over time because there are a lot of hops in it and hops are used to preserve beer. It was the most clear example of fail I have encountered in the field.

This beer is completely Racerist.

Bear Republic, Racer X Double IPA, 8.XX% abv (not looking it up, bottle is in the trash)

A: This beer has a nice amber hue to it with deep orange like that sunset you watched after seeing Human Centipede, special moment. The carbonation is fair, nothing to get tatted on your body but doesn’t leave you wanting. The jets are set to low on the lacing and she’s wearing a one piece. A tame affair.

Me and all my pimp ass friends used to drink this up in Healdsberg and pull so many bitches.

S: There’s an awesome honey and apricot zest to this that brings a radical pineapple closer. The relief pitcher has notes of some light grassiness but the nose is just phenomenal, real spit.

T: The taste is a bit more herbal and medicinal than the exemplary nose would suggest, but it’s still very refreshing. The herbal note subsides into a mild sweetness and the whole ruse about citrus just exits through the gift shop. Overall, the taste is a middle class worker in a Michael Kors ensemble. I hate it when that happens.

Just reviewing another amazing, rare beer, U mad.

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and light and nails it for the style. The bottle says this beer is all about balance and I would say that’s pretty accurate, the maltiness doesn’t press its balls on or around the wall, but the hops don’t really use overdrive either. Everyone is getting good gas mileage in the number 3 lane. The coating is gentle and the carbonation doesn’t overpower things.

D: Aside from this weird Jasmine/floral note at the end, this is pretty smooth sailing considering the ABV and profile of the hops. For all the Lindy Hopping that the east coast does to their “balanced” approach, this nails it with much more clarity. It’s like Rosie O Donnell at a bisexual bridal shower. The bottle was gone pretty quickly and I am glad they finally decided to make some serious COIN by bottling up this extreme Racerist.

I told Bear Republic they could bottle anything. They finally followed my dreams.

Narrative: “What the, oh come on, she’s entering the Nestle Cup? Come on!” the judges looked onward at Thomas Dillery’s frustration. Kaitlyn knew that this race meant so much to him, but apparently he didn’t care about that or her hopes and her wants. “Listen, we broke up ok? You don’t need to stalk me and enter every heat and semi-pro circuit to garner my attention, give it up,” Thomas stated entreatingly. She pushed her hefty size 14 backside within the confines of the racing cage and quipped “well maybe if you spent less time focusing on Jimmy Johnson and cared to address my needs, we wouldn’t be in this situation, and I know what you are going to say, the cabin incident notwithstanding, you have always had communication problems.” She strapped her Marlboro helmet on and began priming the engine. “I am competing today and I will do it with the poise and grace that I held when I supported you when you were out of work, remember that time? Yeah, that’s what I thought, and for your information my metabolism has slowed naturally so-” Thomas’s head felt like a bucket of shark chum hearing her incessant droning. All those days of pretending to care about her stories about her co-workers, the relentless barrage of mundane, now he had to square off for 300 laps against this harlot. “And Sheila said you went to Twist last night and said you talking to some red headed slut, funny, you always said that you hated red heads because of your mo-” Thomas fired up his balanced engine, smelt the herbal oily burn, and prepared himself for 300 laps of hell.