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
    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
    • 1 year ago
    • 1
    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.

    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.

    • 1 year ago
    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.

    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.

    • 2 years ago

    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
    • 2 years ago
    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.

    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.

    • 2 years ago
    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.

    • 3 years ago
    • 11