If you want to find the brewery, you don’t have to look far. As long as you have the password, entering will be simple. If you don’t have the password, then well, I pity you.
cold bottle brown gloss. clink clank thumb thumb. apron wearing barkeep loves his hops, knows his wheat, beard trim and black, cologne at record levels, it’s so much better at the place, have a six pack and tell your friends.
I never really liked beer until this year, actually. When I moved to Champaign I discovered there was this really popular brewery downtown — right down the street from me! On Tuesdays and Wednesdays they have something called “Mug Club.” If you buy a mug for $5, you can go back on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and get $3 draft beer. It’s actually a pretty sweet deal. They also have happy hour every single day from 4-6 — so you get half priced beer then as well. My favorite beer from there is called the U of IPA. Clever, right? Ha ha ha… but like I said, it’s weird, because I used to only drink wine, but now I will also drink beer. Every Wednesday my girlfriends and I always go to Mug Club. It’s like a “you’ve made it halfway through the week!” kindof thing. My mug has pink on it. It’s adorable. On another note, this past weekend my friends and I uber’ed to campus. We went to a “famous” bar called Kams. It was disgusting and smelt like puke.
She smelled the sticky floors and the sweat of large groups of people. She felt immediately at home, even though she was sure she had never been here before. Yet they all smell the same, in the end, right? Bars?
The end of the world and for my last day I will be locked in a brewery. This is irony; fate handing me a harsh judgement. I cannot do this justice, there is no time to make up for lost time, to finally enjoy myself. I have only today to save the world, and then I can drink.
The brewery was so named because all people who passed through the East always stopped there to tast the beer. And they hardly left after many hours of drinking. |It was amazing how many people kept coming there though.
I meet you here in between barrels and barrels of fermenting wine. There is nothing I know about a brewery – except for the fact that you are in it and you are the brewery. It is your spirit that lives in the machines and in the cradle of the wood that nurtures the drink, the drink that I take for granted, that washes down my throat and lights my stomach on fire and spreads like a poison through all my veins and arrest the thoughts from my head. I taste you on the rim of the glass I drink from. There are so many pieces of you scattered around me – in the grooves in the barrels, on the tint of my lips, hanging from the grape vines at the back – all in this brewery that I know nothing of. The brewery is foreign. You are so foreign.
To organise a piss up in a brewery is to do something easy and to be unable to do so is to be incompetent. To organise a brewery at a piss up is, in fact, the height of competence.
The first time I visited a brewery, I was amazed by the vastness of the tanks. Granted, I was nine years old, but the shininess, the exotic smells, and the noise was so intriguing to me.
You see all these men around. Middle-aged, old, both before their time. Their bellies protrude, their legs are spindly. Still strong enough to carry them to their grave. They look pregnant – six months, seven months, nine months even. Perhaps that’s why they drink it. They confuse beer belly with baby belly. Poor guys, don’t they know we’ve got that one covered?
Five small glasses lined up in front of me, all with fairly straightforward names – Amber Ale, Blonde Ale, Imperial Oatmeal Stout, IPA, and Scotch Ale – a different percentage under each name and a promise of looser lips in the hours to come.
They’re not for me, though, I’ve tried them all before. I’m not always in the mood for that bitter sting an IPA leaves, a cruel trade off for its otherwise perfectly refreshing citrus notes that so nicely compliment a hot day. The Blonde Ale, it’s okay, if you’re somewhere between wanting water and beer but aren’t particularly drawn to either. The Imperial Stout is a bitter treat that tricks you into thinking its sweet, and finds its place being nursed in one long sitting. Amber Ale is a classic, but it is outclassed in every sense by the final beer on the list – the Scotch Ale.
Like a honey bee, crafted to be a specialist in every area – rich, smooth, only slightly bitter, sweet with an aftertaste of caramel that disguises its high alcohol content. Even when mood is dreary or the clouds threaten rain, any day is a good day for a pint, or two, or three. I could enjoy it sitting at this table, staring at all the other glasses as much as I could enjoy it sitting on a closet floor, dozing in the summer heat. I could enjoy it at the top of a mountain reached after hours of hiking as much as I could watching some terrible film on the couch inside. It pairs well with just about everything, and I order it, every time.
When we’ve all taken our tastes, we dole out the remaining glasses between ourselves. When I’m up, I insist on taking the small 6oz glass of…do I even need to say? Drawing predictable comments from the peanut gallery, “Still sticking with the Scotch Ale, huh?”
I have a habit, it seems, of choosing drinks with such predictable consistency the servers themselves might remember without me needing to say as much as a word. In the end though, when the night continues and my lips grow loose, I only need to say three of them: “the usual, please.”
The taste is nearly as bitter as the scent. His eyes water as he tips the tumbler all the way back, draining the amber. It goes down like dull fire.
Throat burning, his glass hits the counter with a solid clank. The odour clings to cold breath, lingers in his nose – it’s etched into his reddened gaze. It marks him. After a minute he can’t smell it anymore but it’s still in their stares, in their furrows, in the drawn lines of silent faces.
They know. Everyone knows. But that doesn’t mean he’ll stop. The pain is all they see, and what they don’t know is that the pain is brief. When it’s gone he floods, a sweeping rush of hot heaven straight through his veins: the sweetest sort of relief.
Of course, he doesn’t blame them. He can’t. They just don’t know what heaven feels like.
Northamtpon Brewery and Irish music. I have “She Moved Through the Fair” stuck in my hread already. I understand why Irish music is so metrical now, it helps you walk when you’ve had a pint.
a guy walked into a brewery. He thought brewerys were nice but was confused if multiple breweries were spelt like that or like brewerys. anyways this guys name was George.
Beer is gross. It looks really cool how it bubbles and is so many shades of amber colors. It also kind of looks like really bad piss. A brewery makes the beer from a brew master. What a cool name. brew master.
it takes a whole lot of additives
to make the hops sweet
the barley bearable
to cover up the taste of fermented sweat
and mass produce excuses for 6% of the evening’s mistakes
in glasses dark enough to drown in
its dark enough to drown in
I want to drown in
sticky manufactured sweetness
There were four young sisters at the local brewery. And they bought beer for you, and they bought beer for me. They sang songs about home and nostalgic jubilees. Yes, the four sisters sang at the local brewery.
Well, the youngest, she bought the second and third round. And she drank ’til her eyes turned the other way ’round. I was worried she’d tumble and fall to the ground. But her sisters kept laughing while she didn’t make a sound.
He brews and brews each day, the liquor which he will never drink because he knows what it does. It turns men into someone they do not want to be. They know no answer, so they attempt to find it in liquor and vodka, yet they still know no answer. And with this uncertainty they live.
The smell. The smell. The smell. I hate it. I think it’s just a miserable, fermented, gross, overwrought odor that reminds me of my father’s breath when he came home from work. I was a child and he would tickle me until I cried, and while I was sucking at the air for my last breath, I smelled the brewery that was his afternoon.
My papa is a bartender. He lets me sit at the countertop as he cleans the glasses for the night. He makes his own beer right in the back of the bar, and it’s always a special blend. This one has flowers in it, and it’s named Lyllian, after me, his little girl. I love my papa, and he loves me. Anyone who says bartending is just for the rough and tough can’t be more than wrong.
If you want to find the brewery, you don’t have to look far. As long as you have the password, entering will be simple. If you don’t have the password, then well, I pity you.
yum
its cold and clammy
damn
its disgusting
I die on the brewery floor
cold bottle brown gloss. clink clank thumb thumb. apron wearing barkeep loves his hops, knows his wheat, beard trim and black, cologne at record levels, it’s so much better at the place, have a six pack and tell your friends.
I never really liked beer until this year, actually. When I moved to Champaign I discovered there was this really popular brewery downtown — right down the street from me! On Tuesdays and Wednesdays they have something called “Mug Club.” If you buy a mug for $5, you can go back on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and get $3 draft beer. It’s actually a pretty sweet deal. They also have happy hour every single day from 4-6 — so you get half priced beer then as well. My favorite beer from there is called the U of IPA. Clever, right? Ha ha ha… but like I said, it’s weird, because I used to only drink wine, but now I will also drink beer. Every Wednesday my girlfriends and I always go to Mug Club. It’s like a “you’ve made it halfway through the week!” kindof thing. My mug has pink on it. It’s adorable. On another note, this past weekend my friends and I uber’ed to campus. We went to a “famous” bar called Kams. It was disgusting and smelt like puke.
it is to make the food products like cakes n pastries
or to bake some beer
She smelled the sticky floors and the sweat of large groups of people. She felt immediately at home, even though she was sure she had never been here before. Yet they all smell the same, in the end, right? Bars?
The end of the world and for my last day I will be locked in a brewery. This is irony; fate handing me a harsh judgement. I cannot do this justice, there is no time to make up for lost time, to finally enjoy myself. I have only today to save the world, and then I can drink.
Haltbier, East Barlin
The brewery was so named because all people who passed through the East always stopped there to tast the beer. And they hardly left after many hours of drinking. |It was amazing how many people kept coming there though.
I meet you here in between barrels and barrels of fermenting wine. There is nothing I know about a brewery – except for the fact that you are in it and you are the brewery. It is your spirit that lives in the machines and in the cradle of the wood that nurtures the drink, the drink that I take for granted, that washes down my throat and lights my stomach on fire and spreads like a poison through all my veins and arrest the thoughts from my head. I taste you on the rim of the glass I drink from. There are so many pieces of you scattered around me – in the grooves in the barrels, on the tint of my lips, hanging from the grape vines at the back – all in this brewery that I know nothing of. The brewery is foreign. You are so foreign.
To organise a piss up in a brewery is to do something easy and to be unable to do so is to be incompetent. To organise a brewery at a piss up is, in fact, the height of competence.
The first time I visited a brewery, I was amazed by the vastness of the tanks. Granted, I was nine years old, but the shininess, the exotic smells, and the noise was so intriguing to me.
You see all these men around. Middle-aged, old, both before their time. Their bellies protrude, their legs are spindly. Still strong enough to carry them to their grave. They look pregnant – six months, seven months, nine months even. Perhaps that’s why they drink it. They confuse beer belly with baby belly. Poor guys, don’t they know we’ve got that one covered?
The oak door creaked as I pushed my way into the old brewery. Tears brimming my eyes, I looked around at the last piece I had left of my father.
Five small glasses lined up in front of me, all with fairly straightforward names – Amber Ale, Blonde Ale, Imperial Oatmeal Stout, IPA, and Scotch Ale – a different percentage under each name and a promise of looser lips in the hours to come.
They’re not for me, though, I’ve tried them all before. I’m not always in the mood for that bitter sting an IPA leaves, a cruel trade off for its otherwise perfectly refreshing citrus notes that so nicely compliment a hot day. The Blonde Ale, it’s okay, if you’re somewhere between wanting water and beer but aren’t particularly drawn to either. The Imperial Stout is a bitter treat that tricks you into thinking its sweet, and finds its place being nursed in one long sitting. Amber Ale is a classic, but it is outclassed in every sense by the final beer on the list – the Scotch Ale.
Like a honey bee, crafted to be a specialist in every area – rich, smooth, only slightly bitter, sweet with an aftertaste of caramel that disguises its high alcohol content. Even when mood is dreary or the clouds threaten rain, any day is a good day for a pint, or two, or three. I could enjoy it sitting at this table, staring at all the other glasses as much as I could enjoy it sitting on a closet floor, dozing in the summer heat. I could enjoy it at the top of a mountain reached after hours of hiking as much as I could watching some terrible film on the couch inside. It pairs well with just about everything, and I order it, every time.
When we’ve all taken our tastes, we dole out the remaining glasses between ourselves. When I’m up, I insist on taking the small 6oz glass of…do I even need to say? Drawing predictable comments from the peanut gallery, “Still sticking with the Scotch Ale, huh?”
I have a habit, it seems, of choosing drinks with such predictable consistency the servers themselves might remember without me needing to say as much as a word. In the end though, when the night continues and my lips grow loose, I only need to say three of them: “the usual, please.”
The taste is nearly as bitter as the scent. His eyes water as he tips the tumbler all the way back, draining the amber. It goes down like dull fire.
Throat burning, his glass hits the counter with a solid clank. The odour clings to cold breath, lingers in his nose – it’s etched into his reddened gaze. It marks him. After a minute he can’t smell it anymore but it’s still in their stares, in their furrows, in the drawn lines of silent faces.
They know. Everyone knows. But that doesn’t mean he’ll stop. The pain is all they see, and what they don’t know is that the pain is brief. When it’s gone he floods, a sweeping rush of hot heaven straight through his veins: the sweetest sort of relief.
Of course, he doesn’t blame them. He can’t. They just don’t know what heaven feels like.
Northamtpon Brewery and Irish music. I have “She Moved Through the Fair” stuck in my hread already. I understand why Irish music is so metrical now, it helps you walk when you’ve had a pint.
a guy walked into a brewery. He thought brewerys were nice but was confused if multiple breweries were spelt like that or like brewerys. anyways this guys name was George.
Beer is gross. It looks really cool how it bubbles and is so many shades of amber colors. It also kind of looks like really bad piss. A brewery makes the beer from a brew master. What a cool name. brew master.
it takes a whole lot of additives
to make the hops sweet
the barley bearable
to cover up the taste of fermented sweat
and mass produce excuses for 6% of the evening’s mistakes
in glasses dark enough to drown in
its dark enough to drown in
I want to drown in
sticky manufactured sweetness
There were four young sisters at the local brewery. And they bought beer for you, and they bought beer for me. They sang songs about home and nostalgic jubilees. Yes, the four sisters sang at the local brewery.
Well, the youngest, she bought the second and third round. And she drank ’til her eyes turned the other way ’round. I was worried she’d tumble and fall to the ground. But her sisters kept laughing while she didn’t make a sound.
He brews and brews each day, the liquor which he will never drink because he knows what it does. It turns men into someone they do not want to be. They know no answer, so they attempt to find it in liquor and vodka, yet they still know no answer. And with this uncertainty they live.
This brewery
that is my body,
it’s through with me
Out by Tuesday.
Got a letter in my mailbox heart
Eviction notice
The smell. The smell. The smell. I hate it. I think it’s just a miserable, fermented, gross, overwrought odor that reminds me of my father’s breath when he came home from work. I was a child and he would tickle me until I cried, and while I was sucking at the air for my last breath, I smelled the brewery that was his afternoon.
My papa is a bartender. He lets me sit at the countertop as he cleans the glasses for the night. He makes his own beer right in the back of the bar, and it’s always a special blend. This one has flowers in it, and it’s named Lyllian, after me, his little girl. I love my papa, and he loves me. Anyone who says bartending is just for the rough and tough can’t be more than wrong.
my sister likes craft beer