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.

    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.

    • 7 months ago
    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

    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

    • 1 year ago
    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

    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

    • 1 year ago
    • 1
    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

    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

    • 1 year ago
    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

    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

    • 1 year ago
    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 

    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 

    • 1 year ago