I got my glass Batman mug and Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers: The Movie is on deck in the VCR.
Hot chocolate is in the boil.
Ah, powdered Nesquik, whey protein, and water.
Just like old times.
I got my stuffed animals surrounding me. I am all-powerful.
I am a prince amongst paupers.
I was a Space Cadet champion.
Long live Windows ’98!
Give me a coffee, mom.
I’m ready to fuck the working world.
I’m not sure what that means.
Just get me a bowl of oatmeal instead.
Swap the hot chocolate for a glass of vanilla milk
… yes, bitch, in my Batman cup.
What the fuck you thinkin’
Get me a cherry tootsie pop
And a blanket.
I need a nap.
I’m not yet
*7.8 out of 10*
“That’s the funny thing—it’s the fact that she’s an art student that makes her attractive to me. If she were an artist, hell no.”
Natalie contrived to be agreeable.
“Well… Yeah, an art student is so idealistic, so full of life… and driven. An artist is jaded, cold, and struggling to get by.”
“I don’t know, I think she just fits my type. Then again, any girl whose favorite band is Belle & Sebastian is my type. “
“Well, have you thought of asking her to get coffee at some other establishment?”
I set my cup down on the café table, which wobbled uncontrollably. I eyed the blue-eyed, straight-banged, quirkful barista bouncing from left to right, behind the bar.
She tugged upon the portafilter
like she tugged upon my heartstrings
“Oh, no. No, I’m not like that, I think it’s more of a passive thing. God, I can’t imagine dating. Really, I don’t want to sound anti-social at all, but I can’t stand to think of spending that much time with one person. It’d drive me insane.”
This stupid crap up here.
These ridiculously decadent, yet pedestrian opinions, courtesy of yours truly (and no, I can’t believe they came out of my mouth, either), call to mind the rancidly twee sentiments of Wolaver’s Alta Gracia Coffee Porter. Wolaver’s Organic Brewing, based out of Middlebury, Vermont, is Otter Creek Brewing’s eco-conscious division. While organic craft beer should be twee enough, Wolaver’s goes a step further to include not only organic vanilla in this beer, but also single origin, organic, fair trade coffee beans in this limited, seasonal release. I mean, seriously, this beer deserves a place in Portlandia sketch.
God, I need a shower.
The snow is falling, and it’s the season for rich, dark beers. Indeed, this one is a very appropriate selection for this time of year. Nevertheless, if the beer you’re drinking takes longer than 10 syllables to order at the bar, then you must also accept the culpability of pretention that comes with it. These pretentiousnesses, these pendantic, posturing, maudlin, Napoleonic nonesuchessnesses come part and parcel with the pop of the cap.
You might as well spend the time talking about critical theory and white privilege while imbibing this concoction.
Next time you’re in the company of complete tightwads, why not crank up the NPR and open a few bottles of Alta Gracia? They’ll appreciate its deep black hue, and its subtle, ruby-red tinges when exposed to the light. They’ll swoon when they see its coffee-colored head. They’ll compare it to the likeness of a fine macchiato. They will also make keen remarks about its creamy, pleasant lacing on the glass. That one who looks a lot like a Wes Anderson character might declare how the khaki-colored head recedes quickly, leaving a thin, but decent collar. Passing the glass around, they may say it smells like a creamy, maple latte.
Personally, it reminds me something called a Five Dollar Shake, which—while tipping a hat to Mr. Quentin Tarentino— you can order at a local watering hole around here, in my hometown, called the Radio Bean. It’s a simple cocktail: some stout, a shot of espresso, and a squeeze of maple syrup on top. It’s straight-up perverted. You know, I get some cola nut in the aroma—
Yeah, that’s right,
You can also detect some rich coffee, a hint of blueberry and other dark fruits—plums… well, mostly plums, and some roasty notes.
Instantly, there’s cherry and coffee on the tongue. Then come the rich, sweet, roasted malts. I’m personally struck—struck, I tell you— by some pleasant caramel and toffee notes. It’s much more balanced than I remembered. As with the aroma, the taste of the porter has those nice berry qualities from the coffee beans. As the flavor begins to fade, I detect slight coconut and vanilla. It ends, finally, with a lingering quasi-nectarine flavor on the back end. There’s definitely a nice stone fruit flavor there. I noticed there’s more chocolate on the nose than actually in the taste, but it does develop a little bit as the flavor subsides (paired with that strangely complimentary nectarine flavor). It’s smooth, sticky, and milky in the mouth.
I’m sure that just sounds so fucking appealing.
It’s what folks may call a chewy beer. All being said, it is hard to drink more than two at a time. It’s a bit viscous. Otherwise, it’s pretty easy drinking.
Anyway, that’s it. I’m done with this crap
I’m gonna join
*8.5 out of 10*
It was an early Thanksgiving. The weather was an unseasonably warm 49 degrees—teeming with that kind of “how are you enjoying this heat wave” bullshit that you’d elicit from a passerby when you couldn’t care less about the fucking weather.
“Oh, I know, right?” You ask, not answering the question. You smile, somewhat through your teeth, forcing your arm down at your side in a somewhat Strangelovian manner, restraining the throbbing urge to flip this guy the fuck off. Feet squirming as you plodge upon the frosty ground, teeth grinding. You ask yourself—like you do, year after year—“why the fuck do I live here? What am I doing with my life? This place is practically showing me the door. It doesn’t want me here.”
Leaning to my side, practically collapsing upon the dining room table, the second (or was it third) helping of mashed potatoes was settling upon the bottommost recesses of my stomach, hammering against my pyloric sphincter in the most Gothic manner. The fucking Fall of Rome was reenacting itself in my gut as I sat there dazed, listening to my grandmother drone on about whom else she knew who died recently.
“Her husband was a firefighter, years ago…
He lives alone now…
Losing his mind
And his brother, did you hear?”
Right, he died too.
“Who else is dead, grandma?”
Now is the winter of my uncontent.
Public radio blared through the speakers as I sped my way back home. Folksy stories about decline, quiet, quaint mediocrity and resignation in a frozen Minnesotan shithole lulled me into semi-conscious stupor.
At this point, I’m about to go straight Royal Tenenbaums on this shit and calmly fling this fucking sedan into Lake Arrowhead. Just straight up cock the wheel to the left and launch myself into oblivion.
Yeah, I know that didn’t happen in the movie.
Who’s telling the story here?
It’s called creative license.
So, anyway, after I ran all those people off the highway and caused a 54-car-pileup in middle of the main road, the whole town caught on fire and pretty much everybody died except for that one guy who people thought was crazy, holed up in a bunker, snickering to himself, eating his toenail clippings.
Yeah, it was pretty weird.
Winter is a hard season to adjust to though, aside from the mass destruction of whole villages, there’s also the snow, the cold, and the shorter days.
Needless to say, it’s fucking depressing.
That’s why I have to give credit to Jack’s Abby Brewing, who went out of their way to Kiwi Rising, a Double India Pale Lager with such a sunny disposition.
I mean think about it; Framingham must suck right now too.
Talk about escapism!
No, don’t change the subject; I’m talking about beer here
So, like it’s summer in New Zealand, right?
Pretty perfect timing, Jack’s Abby.
Did you plan that?
You think you’re sooooo fucking cool.
Seriously though, it’s sunshine in a bottle.
Except without the deadly radiation. (Ok, whatever, I’m running out of material)
So, what’s the significance of this bottle of beer? Well for one, it’s stupid hoppy.
Like four pounds of hops a barrel.
I mean this beer is being ridiculous right now.
We’re talking “four kettle hop additions, whole leaf hops in the hop back, and multiple dry hop additions.”
Like, Brazzers level.
As in, you’re gonna need a shower after this level of hop fornication.
It’s 105 IBU of
…and we’re not just talking hops here. We’re talking kiwi hops, which just sounds dope as hell. Turns out, they taste nothing like kiwis. First, that pissed me off, Jack’s Abby. I was furious, but then I realized that I was pretty much just drinking Heady Topper lager, which I guess is ok.
The color: honey gold to sunflower, not much lacing– Very little carbonation visible—it looks like mead… but it isn’t.
…and it smells like vacation too. There are big citrus notes on the nose, along with some other tropical fruits. There’s a residual sweetness as well (because obviously you can smell sweetness—just work with me here)—like an orange marmalade. Finally, there’s some slight pine.
It made me want to parade my fat
Around the beach
Looking for a cool crowd, with which to play
…and when I scare everyone off, I’d go bungee jumping instead.
And did I dive into this beer. Again, there is citrus first on the tongue. Following are strong, biscuit and bread notes—light, crisp malts, like a nice rustic, country loaf, very dry. Pine and botanical flavors linger after swallowing. It’s slightly spicy—very similar to that of a fine gin. By that, I suppose I mean somewhat akin to juniper… and then there’s mango at the end. The feeling in the mouth is rather sticky, with a dry finish. I feel it could be slightly more effervescent, but it is certainly not a detractor.
It’s a damn fine beer.
This is a beer for those who seek to escape from the cold. It’s a beer for those who dream of golden shores, sprawling hills, and mountains that lunge towards the sky. Think of the breathtaking views from the Lord of the Rings movies. That’s this beer—splendid, somewhat sordidly beautiful. You feel guilty partaking of something like this.
*9.3 out of 10*
Rich, golden hair
A soft smile
Into the city night
Is hardly poetic
In the grand scheme
Move a little closer
In the back seat
Of the stretch limousine
But what the hell do they do with these things?
Her skin smells of juniper
Hair of cheap bubblegum
Clearly her clients have not been
I found myself bohemian
Gliding across the leather
She was effervescent
Quiet, yet somehow loquacious
Accented with a tinge of French
By way of Belgium
Like TV dinners
That aluminum life
Is all competition
Like that of the Big Apple
When you buy tin.
Her perfume emerges
More nutmeg than clove
More peach than pear
If only I could bare myself
Bare to her
But to touch is
I can only imagine
Spice of a complicated kind
A kiss of jasmine,
But a kiss I ain’t having
Honey and everything sweet
With a dry sense of humor
Me from the car when the evening ends.
This Pretty Woman
Of the bottle
As the day
I was born.
I’m literally screaming this diatribe at the brewery.
I’m “escorted” from the premises.
Man, I never should have watched Pretty Woman
Whatever, Richard Gere.
You’re not my dad.
*8.0 out of 10*
At this point in the afternoon
I was less
To be desired
The taproom was occupied
Shoes swarmed the linoleum as cockroaches do
But certainly busy
Everyone seems courteous
Of gratification and straight up
Upon my fourth flight, my bartender and I discussed the Ghoulschip.
It was a
“So they put the house yeast in the batch, but it
To the wild
Yeast in the
We put our noses upon our respective glasses (seriously, who talks like this?)
“Aromas reminiscent of green apples, sharp cheese, slight caramel, wet leaves, kohlrabi, tartness somewhere between a lemon and a lime.” She’s leading me on
Rolling my eyes
Take a sip; upfront—lemony citrus stings upon the tip of the tongue, then comes a sour funk marrying a Danish blue cheese and Camembert or brie. It’s salty. A toasty sweetness follows. (This is probably the toasted pumpkin seeds and the pumpkin, itself—I thought to myself) “Oak-i-ness” pokes through towards the back end, and then dryness emerges. Vanilla flavors develop with tart cherries as the flavor begins to dissipate.
More like Boo Berry
It’s a fuck-up
She looked at me, to the bar, to the patrons, and walked away.
Total fuck up.
Don’t die or whatever.
*9.0 out of 10*
T here is a McDonald’s off the main drag that is within walking distance from my apartment. It’s the piec e of shit sprayed over with glitter and given a fancy bow and WIFI. The tables there still stand as tall as I did when I bashed my skull against that one in the corner by the window covered in pigeon shit a nd hot picante sauce that could never quite be scraped off after the breakfast burrito incident. I’m f amily there. The otherwise despondent night manager slips a McNugget in my fries, every time. Strang ely, she never returns my calls. I spend my leisurely evenings confused, drenched in sweat, bitter, po ssessed by an atavistic sense of primal ennui—call it bloodlust, call it drunkenness—standing in line at 1 am behind that family.
“I want that McDouble with heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (I begin to contemplate my life’s meaning, here) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (nearly uncontrollable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (slowly dying, inconsolable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY onions
However, every time, I leave satisfied, detached from the human race, blissfully careening into the black of the night, into the emptiness of mind, emptiness of soul. The cold consumes me and I am enveloped in a thick, numbing paste of nihilistic bliss.
I’m back in my kitchen, covered in ketchup. I’m scared and alone
Where is my promised land?
I ate a box of Crayola for this?
That’s Morrisville, Vermont’s Rock Art Brewery for you.
A reward for the trip there.
Cheap, obliging, friendly, folksy, accommodating.
Mildly unsatisfying, but it’ll get the job done.
Trying so hard to make two and two make three. Their late fall/early winter/who gives a fuck release, Vermont Spruce Stout, is an imperial stout… brewed with Spruce… in Vermont.
God, who cares?
Look, it’s a dark beer brewed with pumpkins, spruce tips, and it comes out once a year.
It’s a weird fucking beer.
It pairs well with Filet O’Fish with a heaping pile of shame and a large fry, personal resentment, feelings of inferiority, white, liberal guilt, and sharp cheddar cheese.
No one cares what the beer tastes like.
I’m covered in grease, sprawled naked on the couch, sobbing.
Somehow, I got tartar sauce on my back
MY GODDAMNED BACK
The beauty of fall is fading,
Death ensues for every living creature
I ate that one
A creamy, khaki colored, receding head,
A slight hint of mint, sweet caramelized sugar, roasted malt, and dark fruit
A strange flavor akin to grape pop rocks—I blame it on the spruce. It barely brushes the tongue before fading into the taste of pine and Christmas.
Full bodied from the pumpkin, I’m sure.
Heavy chocolate flavor
I dig it.
I dig it like a night of defeat coupled with a Quarter Pounder, no cheese, medium fry, sweet and sour on the side.
Thank God I’m not into Sudoku.
That’s my one solace.
*7.8 out of 10*
OH MY FUCKING GOD
I’M JUST WAITING IN LINE TALKING ABOUT ALL THE BEERS I’VE DRANK
EACH ONE WAS BETTER THAN THE NEXT
EACH ONE WAS SO FUCKING MORE RARER THAN THE OTHER FUCKING ONE
EACH BEER WAS SO MUCH MORE BEER THAN PRECEDING BEER
INTRINSICALLY, BEER OF THIS CALIBER COULDN’T BE MORE BEER
OH, WHAT CENTENNIAL HOPS? CASCADE? COLUMBUS?
NO YOU FUCKING CRIMINAL
HOW CAN YOU DRINK BEER WITH YOUR COMPLETE
I KNOW ALL ABOUT BEER
NOBODY DRINKS BETTER BEER THAN ME
I’VE WAITED ALL FUCKING DAY IN THIS GODDAMNED LINE
I’VE BEEN INSTAGRAMMING THE FUCKING CLOUDS
I’M IN THE RAIN
IT’S FUCKING VERMONT
LOOK AT THE GODDAMNED MOUNTAINS
I BROUGHT A TENT
MY FIANCE LOVES BEER
MY FIANCE IS BEER
I MUST RAKE IN A FUCKING FORTUNE TO BUY ALL THE BEER I BUY
LET ME TALK TO YOU ABOUT ALL THE BEER I JUST DRANK
OH YEAH, LAST BATCH OF FOCAL BANGER WAS SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS PIECE A SHIT
IT DOESN’T TASTE JUST LIKE THE OTHER BATCH
BUT ITS MORE LIKE THE PREVIOUS BATCH IF IT WERE A COMPLETE REITERATION, IMITATING ITSELF, MIRRORED AND DISSECTED, A POSTULATION OF A SIMILAR SEMBLANCE, BUT TOTALLY SEPARATE
YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING? IT’S KINDA THE SAME FUCKING THING BUT DEFINITELY DIFFERENT. LIKE EVERYTHING SUCKS NOW, MOSTLY BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T HAVE THE SAME BEER I HAD WHEN I HAD IT. SO I’M SORT OF BETTER THAN YOU
LIKE IT HAD A
LIKE SO CLOUDY
GOLDEN, YELLOW, ORANGE, YELLOW
FEELS GREAT BETTER THAN YOU, BETTER THAN BEER
I’M THE BEST AT DRINKING BEER
BUYING BEER IS SO FUN
I CAN WAIT IN LINE LONGER THAN YOU
I’M GONNA LVIE FORECDVRE
DFASDFADSFNASDF AWEJANEKNGKRAJNFLE;LAN F AKLAEMRKELRNA EWRNANER AEWRLKAER AWERNALERKLADSFADSMLASD’[FNASFADSFADFADSFASDFASDJNGOJ RBGARLFNORNOINKRNASDLFKJMPVNLAPFDALDSF
*10 out of 10*