Shame on You

If you don’t follow me on Twitter and/or Facebook and/or Friendster, you are missing out on some dank content. For example, while you were having a sorry ass Wednesday, I was popping these club bangers:

Getting my peaches smashed.

Founes and Loonz.

Prince of Persica

A peach named Brett.

V010, you coulda had a v8, instead you got a three eight slug to your cranium.

2008, the year you lost your virginity.

2010, the year you told your therapist about it.

Here’s how they stacked up against one another:

1) Cable Car 2008
2) Persica
3) Fou Foune
4) Peche n Brett
5) Cable Car 2010
6) Veritas 010 (still amazing, just in tough company)

But that is like complaining about how the LP Murcielago doesn’t have the cupholder size that I would have liked. I will get around to reviewing these once the inner lining of my stomach returns.

Moral of the story, stop being a set of babytits and Like me on Facebook and follow me on Twitter, I drink to compensate for online affection.


Crooked Stave Blackberry Petite Sour, Like Jamba Juice, For Fitness Buffs with Alcohol Problems

What else is there left to be said about this plucky upstart, Crooked Stave. It uses the fabled Rocky Mountain water that we have heard to much about in a different context. Every batch seems to hover around 1000ish bottles which is the sweet spot for breweries these days, as we all know, ask any kid holding onto a Black Note, he will tell you. So lotsa juicy treats popping up in the spring, let’s see if this one puts forward a good foot, or GETS TANGLED IN THE VINES.

In between all the malt calories, who has time for fresh fruit? Crooked Stave has a solution for you.

Crooked Stave Artisan Beer Project
Colorado, United States
American Wild Ale | ABV ?

BOTTLE NUMBER 424 of 857, mad points for .RAR skillz

This of course, was aged in wine barrels with blackberries added. Blackberries are so damn expensive that using that as an adjunct alone is a feat in itself. I guess all those membership fees are going to good produce use. These brewers must mash out at Farmers Markets like Belle in the intro sequence of BntB (slang.) Anyway, as you can see, this beer almost comes across like something that could be good for you and the color is downright pretty. There are all kinds of deep fuschia, purple, maroon, and ruby hues that makes you feel like Lisa Frank brewed this one up with unicorn blood.

DAMN YOU ELUSIVE SOUR GEMS, your unavailability is megabusting my balls.

The lacing is minimal and I am glad, get that shit out of the way, this is sour territory and I don’t have time for you expansive nature and lacing, lambics don’t fuck around and this wild ale gets right down to business. The bubbles are super fine and put together some nice floorboards for the acidic tannins from the blackberries to gracefully pirouette upon. The taste is exactly what you’d expect, juicy, drying blackberries all up in your dome piece. The oak and tannins go hard in the paint not unlike Wacka Flocka Flame, leaving your mouth all satisfied and dry with residual tastes of jams and preserves. Mammy let you lick the pie tin because you are a good boy.

Gary Soto once wrote a story about how he ganked this pie and felt like a shithead for it, and I kinda feel bad as well, receiving a beer like this so far from its native Colorado home. Kevin P. is a solid bro for kicking this tart gem into my mix. The drinkability, despite the nice acidic finish is kept in check by the sweet aspects of the berries, so it’s like when two girls are jocking you at the same party, an efficient gradient of acrimonious intent levels shit out. Never happened to you? Drink more sours homie.

I will have to disagree with the label’s bossy tone, telling you to serve it around 45 degrees, yeah maybe if you are afraid of amazing delicious fruit notes, then go be a scaredy cat and enjoy the limited profile of this gem. It reminds me of a more brash version of St. Lamvinus, like St. Lam’s brother that is all into magic tricks or the Eagle Scouts. Ultimately this beer is like getting a sloppy smooch from the Smuckers’ curator, and you are edified as a result.

At first I was all like, I ain't drinking no sissy girl colored sour beer, but when it turned into a robot teradactyl and decimated a gigantic monster, it had my attention.

Narrative: What the post-Platonic school of thought never contemplated was that, for every being in the aether, for every corresponding form of each berry ever made, there is a berry heaven. While not sentient, each blackberry in 300 b.c. Macedonia exerted a Will and Representation and, upon consumption, filled a nothingness with each other berry. Michael Park was a total asshole in his life. He would take the last slice, borrow your boardshorts and never give them back, and constantly talk about how amazing the shitty ass Miami Dolphins were. But now he is dead. He awoke in a field with his blackberry Virgil and accompanied him through chamber after chamber of descending berry sins, each one more acerbic than the last. Finally he came to the acidic Lapapa Berry, crushed in three stills for all eternity for its endlessly sour nature, for crimes against palates. “What the fuck is this? Seriously, there’s juice everywhere and it stings my eyes, why have I been brought here?” Michael wiped the sticky pulp without the slightest sense of reverence to the clear parallel to Judas or clever analogs to Italian literature. “Blerghh slergghhh YOUUU AREE A SOURRR ASSHHHOOLLEEEE” Virgilberry gurgled out and pushed him into the press, the iron and oxygen from his mangled body adding a calcium boost to the hellberry slurry.


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

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.