I Can Haz Beers?

An electric guitar’s rumble of boisterous malts fills the...

Tue, 11 Dec 2012 16:57:00 -0800

An electric guitar’s rumble of boisterous malts fills the caverns of yer hop-trained mouth with a major first to a major second and back again in Bell’s This One Goes to 11 Ale. The drums hit on the 1-2-3, leaving the 4 for yer thoughts.

Over-the-top raucous noise can’t tell you which knob on the receiver to hit, so you hit ‘em all on this early December evening. This city’s doldrums have found you, to be sure. The 80s punk scene left for the deeper underground. There are no metal kids. All we have here are Appalachian post-folk preppies.

Can’t we have some distortion?

Today feels like it should have been a snow day, like when you’d plug in and blast the lid off yer college slumlord’s shitbox by the little frozen lake. Call yer buddies and set up the stompboxes. Yer about to play some freak-rock on the ol’ offset-waisted Fender and the 11 Ale will guide yer life-numbed fingers up the neck.

-The Admiral

Shooting lumens into the inky blackness of near-winter night,...

Mon, 10 Dec 2012 19:03:17 -0800

Shooting lumens into the inky blackness of near-winter night, you and yr trusty furpal (—>dog) lunge forward in hasty destruction of evil calories. Yr lust for exercise is dampened, though, by the melodious sound of Snipes Vaquero dripping into a sipping glass.

You burst forth through fronds of backyard ferns and over neighbor’s urban chicken farms into your abode to catch a few savory ounces. The night’s ruminations have begun. A stillness grips the house. It’s as though the walls themselves wait in anticipation for your first taste.

Fact: Beer always tastes better after vigorous physical activity. Come to think of it, all festivals and mind-blowingly good beer bars should be directly located at the end of marathon courses. They’d push their weekend sales in 2 hrs. Especially if they piped in Vaquero exclusively. Apparently even small-ish Washington brewers can make beer with the same vertical index of a Pliny: Wispy Hop Lenticulars, Cold Crushing Bitter Glaciers and a Wide Lingering Set of Aftertaste Subpeaks.

So grab your nearest pooch, hike up those running shorts and beat your feet til your bones are ready to crumble. Then you’ll be ready to revitalize your engine and do it all again.

When you rush across expanses of concrete and steel in the early...

Mon, 17 Sep 2012 20:18:55 -0700

When you rush across expanses of concrete and steel in the early evening hours there’s no natural tendency to wobble. But if you let your neck relax to a floppy state you can sense every sway and gyration of the mechanical hulk yr riding.

This is public transport and there’s no possibility of experiencing this alone. Same goes for yr own damn weddin’. And yr gonna end up literally drinking it in. The Heat, Humidity and the Humanity of it all. There’ll be folk to mop the moisture from yr brows. Fret not. Don’t even mangle a power chord because the sweet thunderous rock of refreshment is about to shatter you. Sweet, persuasive hops popping like ice cubes from a beaten tray against a 20 gallon cooler.

Plaster a party cup full of Moon Man unto yr lips wetter than the 2nd undershirt of yr day. Click. A shot of you satisfied with yr decision. Click. The feeling of the remaining ounces of ale goodness spilling into yr insides.

Click.

The terrible noise of a Moon Man keg drawn dry.

Let’s being another.

Port Brewing’s Mongo IPA floods an ocean of desert dry hop...

Wed, 01 Aug 2012 16:56:00 -0700

Port Brewing’s Mongo IPA floods an ocean of desert dry hop suds dancing on yr tongue to the Calabasas calypso rarely heard and rarely enjoyed. Between the sunny SoCal fogs, you find yrself among the Venice bums and the Abbot Kinney trust fund hipsters. Bewildered, no doubt, yet you focus on the insane lacing and Huron green aroma of the hopvine and dive for another gulp, suddenly tiptoeing around white shark launch attacks like the underwater mambo dancer California sea lion you really are. Finding tranquilmarine peace amid the crazy sunburnt steel drums and rhododendron treble guitar beeps and bops, yr a gold medalist in the Kerouac buddhism of SoCal IPA indulgence.

- The Admiral

Phenomena are blitzes to the senses, creating disorder in an...

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 10:45:53 -0700

Phenomena are blitzes to the senses, creating disorder in an otherwise regimented existence. The bleak and the sublime are interrupted in a casually chaotic manner as yr face receptacle tackles the flavor corruption of the Boneyard.

The next moment, after yr first taste, is opaque as the beer is cloudy. The mind bends backwards like a flailing olympic gymnast, wrenching tendons against their will. Squirrel-faced with bitter noted residue yr eyebrows perk in Spock fashion as a fuzzy bass hum invades yr senses.

Dog odors from underneath yr table compliment yr situation. The haze lessens as yr glass becomes less.tippable. All means of sensory acquisition pull and tug at yr attention: visages of female forms, more tastes of hop curiosity and sounds of clashing glasses.

The evening already feels middle aged. Yr life hangs on the lip of a rounded cup. Pints coming. Be ready. A careful balance will be required henceforth.

And it’s summer again. The humid bolts of lazy lightning...

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 20:33:00 -0700

And it’s summer again. The humid bolts of lazy lightning drift across open grassland, sweeping a crisp hoppy scent into yer flaring nostrils. Flaring, that is, with animal lust. The Urge. Everything is incredibly fuckable. This oaked IPA and its orgy of palate-pleasing tastes are no exception.

In a world made mad by the comings and going of pheremone surges, this IPA soothes fast—a tranquilizer dart to the groin of yer beery libido. Placid clam drips o’er yer demeanor as 3…4…13 sips assembly-line their way to yer maw. Strange mental clarities arise like slowly escaping flood waters.

The tall, sweet hop grasses shudder, hiding the burbling undercurrent of rising intoxication beneath. There isn’t a spot of mud. Sparkling muddy ripples tickle yer toes and you suckle more and more dewey juice.

You can see for dozens of acres in any direction into the rolling green hills of oaky goodness. Absorbing sublime hop acids into yer pores. Confine the marshy beerwater to the friendly recesses of yer belly.

Iron Horse Cozy Sweater Outside, there’s a subtle and...

Fri, 24 Dec 2010 15:39:21 -0800

Iron Horse Cozy Sweater

Outside, there’s a subtle and terrifying stillness. A quiet, wobbling drip of recent rain and things are more silent than they should be. There is a feeling of being watched and you strain the periphery of yer vision to ease your vexation.

Inside, yer mind fuzzes and pills like a well worn hoody. A safe, brotherly glass of Iron Horse beer awaits you. It wastes no time in releasing it’s essence into yer life. A heavy, soothing guzzle as vacationing chocolate wafts past yer tonsils. Terrible things are far from yer thoughts. The night mashes together as one morphing memory, simply blended and administered by pint.

Outside is visible through dewy panes of glass as you finish. A lightness invades yer body akin to the airy unfettered ale you’ve consumed. As you enter back into the surreal fray and beyond the friendly pub doors, the dark corners of alleyways brighten. The former stillness shudders into life. That which should not be, isn’t.

The coziest of sweaters wraps itself around your mental preoccupations, hushing and lulling. Yer constitution eased and the night saved, there’s yet more holiday brew to dream of and awake to find upon the morn.

-Pedro Wooly

Deschutes Jubel 2010 The information receptacle that is the gray...

Sat, 18 Dec 2010 15:13:00 -0800

Deschutes Jubel 2010

The information receptacle that is the gray matter between yer ears can get turn into a boggy wasteland when trying to digest dense arrays of knowledge. The acidic seep that mushes and absorbs experience and then relates the outside world to yer inner self is a porous gauze that often needs re-bandaging.

There would appear then, to be some wild and destructive relationship between Foucault and what is colloquially known as, SuperJubel. Each labyrinthine sentence (ahem, paragraph) the Frenchman composes ushers your free hand closer and closer to that dark void of liquid inside yer growler.

Once you cross that threshold, there’s no turning back. The sheriff’s posse is hot on yer tail and even neighborly Natives’ bows and arrows can’t buy you the time you need before succumbing to yer fate.

Resign without fear because your head muscle’s knots will erode and untie as you bathe your insides with SuperJubel. But don’t try to overanalyze the flavors and smells you encounter or you’ll ruin the relaxing massage as this beer coats your receptors. It’s like learning to take a punch: the only way to feel anything after practice is moderation.

Muffled explosions will occur in places you least expect as you sip this one in gracefully. The ability to order your thoughts will evaporate—leaving you only to realize yer already dehydrating.

Each tastes is revelatory and gives cause to cautious pondering like skipping stones across a glassy lake. In the mountains. In December. Somehow.

-Pedro Wooly

A narrow pinprick of light unfolds and spreads into the cold and...

Wed, 08 Dec 2010 19:31:00 -0800

A narrow pinprick of light unfolds and spreads into the cold and dark at alarming speed. The scene of the universal origins? Hardly. A spotlight of ecstatic enlightenment upon yer gaze.

Beaming happy, shiny photons in yer general directions is a calm, hazy glass of Dogfish barleywine. Sam C and his beer nerd cadre can do no wrong in some circles. It’s exceedingly difficult to disagree here.

A part of yer non-existent soul yearns for the liquid parchment known as barleywine. Sips of this are in ancient Sanskrit, excavated from the furthest depths of yer taste organ. Quarrying the mind for appropriate phrasing becomes taxing. Yer numbing up in the biting, winter wetness.

Oh, and with that 15% too. Could be a factor.

Assuage yer trepidation, for surely yer brethren are with ye. Share this precious liquid and bask communally in the warm glow of Dogfishy reverence.

-Pedro Wooley

Fish Brewing Winterfish slashhhhhhhh and a shocking canyon of...

Tue, 07 Dec 2010 17:27:47 -0800

Fish Brewing Winterfish

slashhhhhhhh

and a shocking canyon of flesh erodes your epidermis. retrieving his naughty claw, a young and angsty kitten scuttles into the farthest crevice to await the next opportunity to strike.

And so too, like some whiplashed Egyptian slave, does yer tongue feign surprise at the zapping shock of the Winterfish. You pantomime because you’ve obviously been down this soppy road before. Trying to distinguish in yr mind between tasty memories and an ingenious brewer’s trick.

So dark but so bitter. Just like the fishhouse on the lake when the generator goes out and you burst out, howling curses at all manner of deities into the January night. The stinging claw of the solstice blunted but still full of vengeance.

Another taste. Partial success. Thoughts still stalk the notion of a pie chart with hops as the majority shareholder. The Dark Malt Syndicate plots a clever takeover only to be rebuked to the very last drop.

Emptying yer head of recollections, you uncap another Winterfish, wondering aloud in a goofy voice, “I wonder how this one tastes?!”

-Pedro Wooley

Pike IPA In the nomadic sequence of foraging that is beer...

Thu, 02 Dec 2010 22:47:00 -0800

Pike IPA

In the nomadic sequence of foraging that is beer selection, Pike’s glowing neon rainbow of packaging stuns yer rods ‘n’ cones. An eery aura envelopes you until a successful purchase is completed.

I.P.A.

Interesting, Palatable, Average

3 nonchalant adjectives raising a notorious question: to beer or not to beer? Handing yr hard-earned greenbacks over for 6 slushy hop bargains may not ring clear and true here. But letting yr friends pour one out for ya like a fallen homey? So be it.

Essentially, it boils down to this-a colonial beverage of the variety found in Tom Paines study. A common sensical (wink!) hop ale for those rutting around like bull elk during the raunchy pangs of mating season. Don’t stray too far afield—wolves and “accidental” hunters lay near, salivating. No, step hoovily toward the gravitational center of this year ritual, an elky dominatrix with a bugle so sensual it’ll melt yer antlers.

But stop stiffly plodding and (en)gorge yerself on the procreative powers of Pike’s IPA

Laurelwood Tree Hugger Porter It was recently announced that...

Thu, 18 Nov 2010 17:27:05 -0800

Laurelwood Tree Hugger Porter

It was recently announced that experiments at the Large Hadron Collider indicated the possibility of containing anti-matter, albeit momentarily. If the scientists at CERN had done their homework, they would’ve found that tiny nibbles of anti-matter have been finding their way down to the Laurelwood Brewpub for years.

Something in the quantum is acting in a spooky fashion inside their pints and bottles and kegs of this arborphilic porter. A very mild personality for a dark beer but lurking beneath the surface is a chaotic, serpentine undercurrent the likes of the Atlantic Loop. The flow is pleasantly continuous sending a big middle finger to the typical porter-infiltrating syrup viscosity. Smooth as a Buddy Rich drum roll and not nearly as deceased.

The Tree Hugger makes an impossibly dense pose. The stout-like sippability (real word) halts yer epic swilling sessions in dramatic fashion. Those tiny anti-matter particles slow every action and thought in your body. Yer belly whines and yer lips uncooperatively lurch toward the pint rim.

It’s all you can do to take shallow gasp after shallow gasp of amazement with this exasperatingly science-y beer.

-Pedro Woolley

Russian River Pliny the Elder (A long overdue ode) Punk rock in...

Mon, 15 Nov 2010 20:50:48 -0800

Russian River Pliny the Elder

(A long overdue ode)

Punk rock in at the dawn of adolescence remains inextricable from my moldy, blackened soul. The thumping crunches of moshpits and remnant glue in my hair sweep my thoughts like a lunging, rusty rake.

In the same brain scalping manner, Pliny, has settled in tiny bubbles to form a dead pizza-crust ring around those memories. This hop wonder has bound itself in a mazy foxtrot with the echoes of my eternal youth.

So appropriate then, to be slavishly scrubbing dishes, stopping, quaffing Pliny, and popping in the next Bad Religion cee-dee. 8 D batteries of irrepressible angst and a pint of citric smiles nodding you on.

The sheer power of this brew just makes you stop yer complex noisetrain between yer ears and ponder. How did this come about? Will I ever know something this bogglingly terrific? Similar questions reached me when I was 16 and getting my ears rung by giant speakers in dank, sweaty basements.

Pliny urges all of us to ring out the damp t-shirt of our youths and pour its delicate but forceful nectar of slow maturity into our lives. There’s nothing short of magical in this bottle.

Sierra Nevada’s Harvest Wet Hop Ale is to be enjoyed...

Thu, 04 Nov 2010 22:27:00 -0700

Sierra Nevada’s Harvest Wet Hop Ale is to be enjoyed whilst drowning in the dreary downpour of an intense autumnal low pressure system. This wet hop splashes its greeny green freshness through gigantic droplets to yer mouth even after it’s been poured over 3 mountain ranges. Fitting it should remind you of that first range first.

The Cascades! Photos of yer bestest best friends and their man’s best friend tip-toeing the Pacific Crest Trail could be improved only with a bottle of the Harvest. And perhaps yer shaggy-ass hophead. But let’s not cloud these sun-soaked landscapes. These hops remind you of yer own days, doused under Dickerman’s trees above the Mountain Loop Highway. Yer days, drenched while the tiny avalanches crash down to the doug firs on Lake 22. And yer nights, soaked and trudging the city on 16th and Densmore and Roy and Sunnyside. And yer nights, sopping wet on that damned field on the north side of the Sammamish where you busted yer finger, yer knee, and yer spirit. They’re still yer places. They still know yer steps.

So drink with these memories the Harvest when yer in the east on the nights that it rains like it does in the west. The Harvest is as close as you’ll be here to the Pacific’s High Tide.

-The Admiral

RYE APOCOLYPSE Laughing Dog Rocket Dog Rye IPA Cascade...

Wed, 03 Nov 2010 20:36:00 -0700

RYE APOCOLYPSE

Laughing Dog Rocket Dog Rye IPA

Cascade RyePA

Torrents of bleeding mascara blacken the inner thighs of the city’s roadways as Halloween denizens and skanks roam the cloudbursted avenues in search of darker, drier air. Whether you’ve been a sexy pumpkin or a pervy French mime, there’s a “place” you can go to dry off. The Land of Rye.

All things hoppy in yer brain can be shed momentarily. We’ll return there momentarily. The tannic grindstone of flavor you’ll soon be sampling (true) is the grain of rye. Straight outta Iowa or Nebraska like a beery field of dreams. We are so often negligent with the ugly cousin of malt and barley. This cousin is much older and always brings a dusty, earthen cough to the party. Just give it another cool glass of V8 to cover that hack. That’s Cascade’s approach.

Or perhaps a funky aromatic nose-bath of hops? Codify the rods of rye into mere stirring sticks and whisk the leftover IPA you’ve gathered in yer cooler. Or wash yer lonely spritzer bottle into the dry hopping bag and wait for the magic. Chuckles the Pooch and his brew crew choose this.

There’s nothing robust about Rye’s but the arid feeling in yer maw after the Cascade might leave the unaccustomed bewildered. In the interests of time and quantity guzzle every last drop of LD’s liquid perfection

An October evening featuring a non-eastern division team in each...

Wed, 20 Oct 2010 20:23:00 -0700

An October evening featuring a non-eastern division team in each of the conference series is best spent on a living room beach chair, sampling the few good pumpkin beers known to man. Phils and Yanks grab all the headlines of the Eastern Seaboard. Fuck ‘em. Give yerself solace from the Madness: there are eastcoasty brews worthy of yer buds. And thankfully more than just the Southern Tiers and Weyerbachers.

Behold! Cape Ann Brewing Company’s Fisherman’s Imperial Pumpkin Stout! More words in a beer name, please!

Soberly now, this beer’s pumpkin and stouty complexions intertwine like the bell-toned grunge klanggggwobbbble of Sonic Youth open-tuned Jazzmasters. No, Thurston Moore won’t give yer guitar fingers the lesson they need but the Fisherman’s Pumpkin Stout will make yer tongue a bit more nimble.

8.0% of belligerent jack-o-lantern is masked well behind a Lincecumiun glove. Good thing the yawning, 7.5 foot stride surmounts the after-effects. Fitting that this October’s dark horse is emblazoned with black and orange, no?. Yer mouth yearns to mimic this.

Time to get over the ales, marry yer bass player, and give anyone you know from Philly all the sludgy pumpkiny stout you have, cuz yer now in the know. The Fisherman’s Pumpkin Stout vindicates yer support of the underdogs.

-The Admiral

Upright Brewing #7 A fistful of pine needles drops loosely from...

Tue, 12 Oct 2010 13:13:29 -0700

Upright Brewing #7

A fistful of pine needles drops loosely from yer grasp as you scramble on upwards towards some craggy summit in the Cascades. The inner billy goat erupts from yer legs and each ledge becomes an easy prance. Clack. Hoof. Clack. Bounce. Clop. Skid. Stop.

Arrival. Perched atop yer conquered precipice in awe of yer surroundings, the wind double-takes and smashes back upon you. Stinging nettles of ice assault yer face. You taste pure mountain water in yer pores and bits of dirt on yer lips. Standing upright (wink!) with a clear head, there’s no better time to sample from yer flagon of saison for the seventh (doublewink!) time thusfar.

Surly and stubborn as the white, wooly beasts of the rocky cliffs, your beverage skins the hide of yer tongue with aroma of fresh soil. A poofy blast of warm air heats yer drink and you excavate hidden treasures: delicately preserved floral tones as soothing as a baby goats bleat.

This ridge you’ve been perched on for a time seems stable but erratic for weather. The liquid yer consuming reflects the untamable nature pitted against you. Heaping mounds of moss and bunch grass lay waiting in the valley and bottom of yer glass. Fill up yer lungs and plunge headlong back into the fray.

Down the mountainside with ye towards golden rays of flavor and escape the wobbly skree with yer saison stained hooves.

Scuttlebutt Hoptopia Imperial IPA Hop wave: a parabolic force of...

Mon, 11 Oct 2010 10:41:06 -0700

Scuttlebutt Hoptopia Imperial IPA

Hop wave: a parabolic force of lip-smacking energy cresting frothy and boiling on yer tonsils; borne of cataclysmic bitter acids and sun-soaked nuggets from a wily vine of hops.

Sinking and slumping backwards into yer favorite drinking position, quaff in repose. The heavy rains are still far off and yer cochlear itches aren’t worth scratching yet. But you cannot ignore the pungent stench of hop leaves drifting through yer ear canals as sip after sip of this ale slithers its way down yer gullet.

Like footballers and referees, you are expected to get along professionally with one another. And so too is it with you and Scuttlebutt. Every working relationship requires the promise of a knowing wink and taught handshake—two elements that sneakily dribble down the sides of yer empty pint glass.

No, this is not a traditional business model. There’s too much temptation here to indulge in yer successful partnership. Take one another home and consume one another. A vixen draped in hop dew, sweating citrus charms to lure yer signature on a liquid contract. One more pint? It might be necessary.

Bell’s Oarsman Ale When yer feeling you ought to be...

Mon, 27 Sep 2010 21:33:00 -0700

Bell’s Oarsman Ale

When yer feeling you ought to be somewhere yer not: a fruity sessions beer that hearkens years of yoar…

The Oarsman has a surprising panache of saison and pale ale tones that will leave you wanting more with each of his strokes. Whilst you may have pointed yer hull in search of that super harvest moon on the equinox, the clouds left you with a lightning display and an eerie, orangey moon surging through the stormfront. Yonder to the north, yer eyes are caught at the horizon that’s growing rough.

Best not to indulge too long, lest you’d prefer yerself on top of yer upside down dory.

So turn yer bow from the wind and let the oars free as you calmly surf back into shore. Another night will be better suited for the harvest. Hang on to the refreshing, summery splash of the Oarsman Ale and settle into yer chair knowing that yer plans only have to wait till the storm passes.

-Admiral Specific

Oskar Blues: Dale’s Pale Ale Problems in classical...

Sun, 26 Sep 2010 20:58:00 -0700

Oskar Blues: Dale’s Pale Ale

Problems in classical genetics are overcome by slowly evolving processes. The amount of time necessary to imbibe proper amounts of this brew mirrors the glacial pace of multi-generational cross-breeding.

The beery end of this nucleotide rainbow tightly fuses the skin around yer brain into an orange rind husk. You begin to think it’s wise to do things like ghost-swim a boat. You compliment yer watersports by trumpeting Sublime bass notes every…other…breath. A human fog horn cutting through distinctly funkless clouds of water vapor.

Your body twists like a double helix as you climb back aboard, drenched, and reach for the last frosty can of Dale’s in a gigantic cooler.

Zesting your skull with a soppy paw, you guzzle acres of hops and fields of malt. Your breath reeks of satisfaction. And yer mental boat grounds itself on the shores of Lake Dale. Yer actual boat is probably meandering off into the Pacific because yer already back on the shore with wobbly sealegs.

The hybridization is complete. You’ve become one with this beer. You start telling people things like, “I seem to remember being born in Colorado” and you check your ass for yer birthday. Yer fingernails pop off in little metal tabs, only to grow back again.

Time to go juice yerself into the nearest urine-receptacle. Save the rind for another maritime foray into, around-in, and straight through a Gregor Mendel-approved case of Oskar Blues’s finest.

-Pedro