New Beer Friday, Return of Sagnessagiel (July 24)

Preamble by Sagnessagiel

It’s been an eternity since I submitted anything to The Buzz and I’m sure some of you may be wondering whether I have fallen off the face of the earth.

Well in a way I have.

The last time I was down in good ol’ Beer City USA I got a little carried away, imbibed a little too much of the local breweries excellent beers and was late getting back to heaven for a rather important meeting with the Boss. And when I say the Boss, I mean the Big Boss. Tardiness is one of the Almighty’s pet peeves and He came down pretty hard on me. For the last four years or so I’ve been delegated to cleaning the golden commodes up here, my internet privileges were rescinded and I was forbidden to set a sandaled foot off of these hallowed grounds.

I’m quite sure this ungodly punishment would have continued but the Old Man got wind of a new product that He was keen to try and every last one of my compadres were off on other assignments. A few weeks ago He summoned me and quite literally told me to get my butt down to earth and pick Him up some Not Your Father’s Root Beer.

Now the Old Man isn’t opposed to taking a drink now and then but He's really not much of an imbiber. A little sacramental wine now and then and that's about it. Though He doesn't drink a ton of beer He does hold creative brewers in high esteem and He absolutely loves what is going on with the craft beer movement. (You know that little quip attributed to Ben Franklin that beer is proof that God loves humans? Spot on!) That said, he is quite fond of root beer and I wish you could have seen the beatific look on His face after He took a hefty swig of the stuff from His chalice.

Personally, I don’t get why so many folks are going gaga over this root-beerish malternative. The Old Man let me have a sip and let me tell you that was plenty enough for me. Too sweet in my opinion. Does it taste just like root beer? Sure. But when I want a beer, and that’s quite often, I want the real stuff.

But you know what? If Not Your Father’s Root Beer makes the Old Man happy and some Siciliano’s Market customers happy, well, that’s good enough for me.

Like J. C. is fond of saying, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

Peace and love,

Sagnessagiel

New and Returning Beer

• Bell's Oracle, $3.09/12oz (2 per) - "Our take on the West Coast-style Double India Pale Ale, The Oracle places hop intensity first & foremost, making only the slightest concession to malt & balance. The fireworks start with the aromatic punch of dry-hop sessions with hop varieties from the Pacific Northwest. Resinous, citrusy hop flavors mixed with aggressive bitterness from a massive kettle addition deliver on that aromatic promise" (source).
• Bell's Neptune, $2.09/12oz (2 per) - "With Neptune, our Planets Series comes to an end. Inspired by one of Larry Bell’s old homebrew recipes and the music of Gustav Holst, this complex, strong and spiced Imperial Stout offers prominent herbal notes along with flavors of chocolate, roasted malt, licorice/anise and pepper with a touch of heat. Reminiscent of a mystical creation brewed in days gone by, this beer is a good candidate for aging due to the robust characteristics of its ingredients" (source).
• Vivant Tropical Saison, $3.39/12oz (2 per) - "Waves lapping the shoreline. The smell of sunscreen and dune grass. A day with nothing to do. This saison transports us to our summertime happy place, no matter what office cubicle we're trapped in, no matter what the weather is outside the window. A slight spicy character, light effervescence, and the addition of real pineapple & mango juice lift us out of our everyday and plop us, feet in the sand, to our beach front reverie. Not cloying, but refreshing and complex, this beer is a true “salut” to summer" (source).
• Lakefront New Grist Ginger, $1.89/12oz - "We took our refreshing gluten-free beer, New Grist Pilsner, and brewed it with fresh ginger for a zesty, thirst-quenching flavor: introducing New Grist Ginger. This beer pours light gold with a rocky white head kicking out aromas of ginger and malted sorghum. The spicy-sweet ginger greets the palate first, before moving into the familiar flavor of New Grist: tangy green apple, light body, and crisp, refreshing finish. Overall, New Grist Ginger is a flavorful, easy-drinking, session beer with a snappy ginger punch. New Grist Ginger goes great with any variety of ginger-infused Asian dishes, like the sweeter broth of chicken Saigon pho, mild-to-spicy Thai gai pad king, or the spicy citrus notes of chana masala" (source).
• New Belgium Long Table, $1.69/12oz - "The longer the table, the more room for friends. This season, our new Long Table Farmhouse Ale is the best excuse to pull up a chair with your closest companions for a few rounds. An ode to the bucolic, table-friendly Belgian saison, we’ve added a delightfully new hoppy spin to the style, creating a sip that whisks a taste of the tropics into the Old World. Traditional grains of Munich, pale malt and rye lend a wash of toasty, spicy bread, while exotic Nelson Sauvin and citrusy Chinook hops buoy the juicy fruit flavors of our Belgian yeast. So gather around and get ready to hoist this spritz complex farmhouse ale amongst the company of friends" (source).
• Deschutes Stoic, $17.19/22oz - "A prized, potent, Belgian-style Quad of stirring depth and complexity. Four nuanced fermentations. Aged, sequestered, in select rye whiskey & wine casks. Ergo a stoically brewed quad, with the spellbinding complexity of its medieval ancestors" (source).
• Ommegang 2015 Belgium Independence, $9.29/750ml - "Our limited edition belgian-style tripel honors Belgian Independence Day - July 21, 1831. In a new world twist on old-world style, we've joined Ommegang innovation with Belgian tradition in celebration of the Belgian revolution and the American craft beer revolution. Dry-hopped with Mandarina Bavaria hops, this unique beer offers fruity aromatics, well-integrated honeyed malt character and a delightful overlay of tangerine and sweet citrus notes" (source).
• Short's Spruce Pils, $2.39/12oz - "Spruce Pilsner is an Imperial Pilsner, fermented with local, hand-picked blue spruce tips. The spruce presence, rooted in historical brewing practices, is enormous and gives the beer a refreshing gin quality. This beer is impressively light bodied, considering the immense spruce flavors and the prodigious additions of hops" (source).
• Big Sky Pygmy Owl Itty Bitty IPA, $1.69/12oz - "Pygmy Owl is an IPA with full fledged hop taste and aroma, yet is remarkably low in alcohol. In fact, it clocks in at only 4.2% ABV. An IPA with full flavor, but without the harsh bitterness. And the best part, you can have more than one without getting that drunkied up feeling" (source).
• B.O.M. Wild and Funky, $5.09/11.2oz - "The Wild & Funky is our response to the challenge to brew a new style of sour beer with mixed fermentation. Taste-wise, the beer fits perfectly within the Belgian tradition, but the brewing method is different than usual" (source).

Video of the Week | Harmony Hall

A first look at Harmony Hall on Bridge Street in Grand Rapids

Cheers!

Even in heaven they got the blues

In which the holiest--and most crotchety--of all Buzz contributors upends further mistruths about his kind (angels), but first accuses The Buzz managing editor of being a 'tyrant with a god complex'. Yup, it's a pretty standard Tuesday around here.

Yogi

By Sagnessagiel

Lately the esteemed editor of The Buzz, a person who I have the upmost respect for despite our frequent spats over syntax, grammar and punctuation, someone who, I’m sure, is very nice outside the office and who, I’m willing to admit, I might have wrongly accused of being a tyrant with a god complex, has been demanding that I provide some details as to what we typical, rank and file, overworked and underappreciated worker bee angels look like. The editor feels that since I had no qualms about busting his eighty-year-old grandmother’s belief that angels have wings, that I should be equally unhesitant to let it be known that I and the vast majority of my compadres bear no resemblance to strapping young men with broad shoulders and flowing manes of curly golden hair. 

If it makes him happy, I have no problem admitting that I wish I had a case of Two Hearted for every time I was told that I’m the spitting image of Yogi Berra, that my buddy Cameal bears an uncanny resemblance to Don Mossi and that Manakel is a carbon copy of Gates Brown. I could give more examples but I think you get the picture. Obviously back when the Old Man was designing His angelic legions, he didn’t feel that we common angels, the ones who get dirty in the trenches, the ones who draw all the crummy assignments and who tirelessly perform their duties without ever getting so much as an atta-boy or a thank you, needed to be blessed with good looks. The archangels on the other hand…well, I’m sure you‘ve seen those shirtless, taut-muscled, dreamy young lads with bedroom eyes and pouting lips who grace the pages of Calvin Klein magazine advertisements. 

I realize I’m being a bit snarky but I just got back from music practice where I was again berated in front of the entire choir for my “lack of enthusiasm” and for my “ghastly, stone-fingered” harp playing. While I’ve never been a virtuoso on the concert harp, (it’s hard to hit the right notes when you have fingers the size and general thickness of sausages), my inherent honesty forces me to admit that my enthusiasm for playing that horrid instrument has indeed been on the wane ever since Sonny Boy Williamson began teaching me how to play the blues harp.

I ran into Sonny Boy quite by accident. I was on my way to get some pointers from Mozart when I took a wrong turn and instead of arriving in the eighth hall of the twelfth heaven, the residence of the classical composers, I ended up in eighth/thirteenth, the section of heaven where all the great blues and jazz legends are spending eternity. The eighth/thirteenth is unlike any other section of heaven. It might best be described as a cross between the World Showcase section of Disney World and a Hollywood back lot. One minute you’re walking down an exact replica of Beal Street in Memphis and the next you’re hanging out with Charlie Parker on a street corner in Old Chicago. There’s even a reconstruction of the famous crossroads of Routes 61 and 49, the place where, legend has it, Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the ability to play the blues. (Robert plays in a juke joint up here every third Sunday so that’s another myth can finally be put to rest. Hopefully the editor’s grandmother won’t have an issue with that.)

Lately I’ve been going to the eighth/thirteenth whenever my ungodly busy schedule permits and I’ve been fortunate to have met and jammed with a number of the great ones. When I’m blowing hot on that blues harp I forget all about my cares and woes. My problems with editors and music instructors magically disappear, and I couldn’t care less that I look more like a Notre Dame gargoyle than a Reuben’s cherub, or that the Old Man rarely calls me by the right name.

Come to think of it I think it would probably do me a world of good right now if I pulled that harpoon out of my dirty red bandanna.

Play the blues, Sagnessagiel. Play the blues.

Proof that God loves beer, baseball

Apparently Siciliano's still has friends in high places. Very high places.

Dear readers of the Buzz,

Those who have read my previous posts (here and here) know that the section of heaven I’m in charge of guarding (fourth hall, seventh) is reserved for professional baseball players, but I don’t want you to get the impression that everyone who makes a buck playing The Great American Pastime automatically gets to spend eternity here. The rules for admittance are quite complicated. For example, if a player’s lifetime batting average is below the Mendoza Line, he won’t be roaming the Elysian Fields of these friendly confines unless the patron saint of baseball, Santa Rita, intercedes mightily for him. A minor leaguer who never gets called up to the Show usually is flat out of luck, and if the only time a minor leaguer gets called up is in September (when the rosters are expanded), generally he’s a no go too. There are exceptions of course. All the players from the old Negro Leagues are here as are those players, regardless of stats, etc., who happened to hit a grand slam on a Sunday, had the name Jesus, or were practicing Irish Catholics.

Then there are the guys who had fine careers in the Majors but were denied a locker in this exclusive clubhouse because they dishonored the game. With the exception of Shoeless Joe Jackson, the guys involved in the Black Sox Scandal are hanging out with politicians who had extra-marital affairs. I’m guessing Pete Rose will end up in that section too even though Santa Rita seems to have taken a liking to him. (Got to hand it to old Charlie Hustle. The last time I checked he had belted out 4,256 prayers to Santa Rita, an all-time record.) Rumor has it that when the guys who used steroids begin croaking they’re going to be sent to fifth, twelfth, the section of heaven reserved for television evangelists and professional ping pong players.

Shoeless Joe is here because the Old Man knows he got a bum rap. “I’ll let The Lord be my judge,” Shoeless Joe once said. Well, when the Old Man examined the facts—twelve hits in the series, a .375 batting average, no errors—He determined that Joe was innocent but obviously that hasn’t meant squat to the Hall of Fame committees. But I have a feeling that Shoeless Joe Jackson will someday be enshrined in Cooperstown. Santa Rita has been tirelessly working the phones so to speak and she’s a damn pit bull when she sets her mind to something.

While we’re on the subject, it is my opinion that you folks should be soliciting the help of patron saints a whole lot more. There are currently 7,274 of these haloed intermediaries up here in heaven and most of them are just lying around waiting for something to do. Do your homework—you’ll find that there are patron saints for just about everything, several for brewers, and even one for hop-pickers. Often all it takes is a well-placed prayer and problems with stuck fermentations, infections, boil overs and carbonation issues will magically disappear.

Until next time and, as always, peace and love,

Sagnessagiel

Today's post is triple hopped, turns blue when cold

Sometime yesterday the most infallible of all Buzz contributors, Sagnessagiel the Angel, appeared at the home of Steve "the boss man" Siciliano. This time the angel brought a large stone tablet into which he had carved his latest contribution, a meditation on two subjects: (1) the volatile nature of certain famous/dead writers; and (2) the stupidity of macro beer marketing. Not knowing how to email a stone tablet, Steve transcribed the message on his laptop and then sent it off to The Buzz editors, who received it without questioning its origin at all. To read Sagnessagiel's first contribution, please click here.

Dear Buzz readers:

There’s a pretty complex angelic hierarchy up here in heaven. I won’t bore you with the details (if you want the complete skinny, Google “angels”—I guarantee you’ll get so much information it’ll make your head explode). I will tell you that we angels are divided into three Triads with each Triad separated into three Choirs. I’m in the third Triad (the lowest) in the third Choir (also the lowest) and to be quite honest, (of course I’m being honest, I’m a fricking angel for God’s sake) I’m perfectly happy with my lowly status. Some of my fellow third Triad, third Choir compadres (I’ve always liked the word “compadre”) would sell their souls to get to the top. Me, I have no desire to be a Seraph (the highest level of angel). All Seraphs do is chant the Trisagion (“Holy, Holy, Holy”), they have four heads and six wings, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that if I came across one in a dark alley it would scare the living hell out of me.

I realize that I’m using a lot of parentheses but I just had a long talk with Virginia Woolf and she was the one who suggested that I incorporate them into my writing. I’m pretty new at this writing thing, and while I’ve been told I have a modicum of raw talent (by Shakespeare no less) I’m not hubristic enough (pride, after all, is frowned upon up here) to blow off advice, even when it comes from someone as goofy as Virginia. Ms. Woolf is a piece of work. Come to think of it, most of the writers up here are a little wacky. Turns out that Hemingway was eavesdropping on my conversation with Virginia and he just went totally berserk. He stopped just short of calling her a devil and probably would have if Faulkner didn’t rush up and tell him to shut the F up. (Bill didn’t really say “F”, but if I wrote out the expletive it would never get past the censors.) Well, as you can imagine, old Papa didn’t like that much and he and Faulkner began shoving each other and before you knew it there was an all out brawl—Dos Passos duking it out with James Joyce, Scott Fitzgerald on the floor wrestling with e. e. cummings, Virginia and Gertrude Stein pulling each other’s hair—and while all this was going on Shakespeare hopped up on a table and kept bellowing “oh what fools these mortals be” until a couple of other angels and I could finally restore order. It was quite a show.

After things calmed back down I went off by myself and mulled over what William kept shouting. (Is “mulled over” the right wording? Perhaps contemplated would be better? Or how about deliberated? Ruminated? Reflected? Considered? Pondered? God, so many choices.) You humans can be quite foolish. (That’s not meant to be a criticism…it’s just a statement of fact. I've got to call 'em the way I see 'em.) Now I'm not talking about wars, or mass murders or the destruction of your planet. In my humble opinion those types of things transcend foolishness and enter into the realm of idiocy. What I'm talking about here is your relatively innocent, garden-variety foolishness like watching reality TV shows, being obsessed with the lives of Lindsay Lohan and Britanny Spears and, in my opinion, one of the worst types of foolishness, putting up with those ridiculous beer advertisements.

You know what I'm talking about. Are you really going to drink a beer because some Madison Avenue schmuck tells you it's triple hopped? Are you going to buy a beer because the stripe on the can turns blue? Arrgh! Stuff like that drives me crazy.

That's enough ranting. As you may recall, I'm in charge of the section of heaven where professional baseball players are sent and later today the boys are throwing a surprise party for Sparky Anderson to celebrate the fact that the Tigers finally got around to retiring his number. After that I have a (private) meeting with Faulkner. He's going to coach me on the intricacies of constructing a fifteen-page sentence.

Peace & Love,

Sagnessagiel