RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Wednesday, May 5

Sierra Nevada Glissade Golden Bock

AFFORDABILITY: The Glissade was on mad sale, and my wife was a full-on Grateful Dead parking lot hippie for a few years, so Sierra Nevada in abundance is like the retro key to good times, where we will play cards in the kitchen and end up somewhere in the back yard before the night's out. I do not mind the taste of this here hippie girl beer, but I do not mind the taste of most beer. Sierra Nevada has never been a brand I tend to support, with money or kind words. But springtime is a time where women wear tank tops and flowery skirts, and it rekindles my inner hippie girl fetish, and the blood flows in and out of my penis in strange patterns, and my heart beams with positivity, and my mind is constantly like, "Yo Raven, fuck work, go sit out in the sunshine with some beer and think about who you're gonna play horseshoes with this weekend." The on sale Glissade is a part of this complete balanced afternoon breakfast I daydream about. 4 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: You see, if I had done did this blurbage two weeks ago, I would've been all over the Glissade's ability to cause enjoyable feelings in my brainstem. But I've moved on, and now my wife drinks the Glissade, so it's her beer when we get it, and mine ends up being the things that float to the back of the fridge, behind the kimchi crock and sauerkraut quart jars, so this makes me resentful of the Glissade. Thus I don't think of it as destroyable so much as necessary to be destroyed. My one time friend has become my enemy. Now I shall train. 1 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: It is your normal style stupid fucking Sierra Nevada label, just different. 0 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Sierra Nevada, and I hate to be so damned judgemental, but is probably owned by the type of people that make me think “fucking white people” in a derogatory way. And even if they’re not, they are dranken by that type of person, just on the starting trajectory of their upwardly mobile life. I guess eventually rich people stop drinking beer and drink wine instead, because there’s only so hoity-toity you can be about beer, and you can’t properly display your pretentiousness on full. But my wife likes it, in fact I just brought home a fresh 12-pack box of the Glissade yesterday for her, and as much as I’d like to be a hater, I can only hate so much if she’s into it, kind of like some of her friends. So we’ll say 3 out of 5. But I’m fucking sick of having pot luck cookouts and fucking Sierra Nevada Glissade Golden Bock bringing a goddamned couscous lentil salad with organic spinaches from Kazakstan originally that only they grow around here. Or bring a dozen eggs from their chickens to the pot luck. Bitch please, we all got chickens nowadays.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Mixed feelings. I liked it but then didn’t like it, but the wife loves it, but the girlfriend hates it, but the boyfriend loves it. Plus it is Sierra Nevada so I feel like a tool when I buy it. 2 out of 5.

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