Owning a microbrewery is a labor of love. Often times, the genesis is a mad homebrewer’s hobby growing so big that their basement, kitchen, garage and children’s closets become so clogged with gear that they HAVE to go pro.
This is what happened to Matt and Renee Nadeau who are about to celebrate the tenth anniversary of Rock Art Brewery. But now they’re being attacked.
(Personally, as a homebrewer living in a tiny one- bedroom apartment in Queens, it has certainly been a challenge and I can tell you that one corner of our bedroom is so overloaded with hoses, brushes, buckets and tools that were my wife not so in love with the beer, they’d end up on the curb for NYC’s finest to haul off. But enough about me…)
This story is about a battle that’s brewing in the cozy state of Vermont. And its gonna be a long and costly one. A classic tale of corporate greed and the power of the dollar squashing the little guy. The villian in this story? Monster Energy Drinks. But wait, you ask, what the hell does Monster want with a small microbrewery in Vermont?
Well, in a stroke of pure asinine genius, the corporate wizards at Monster have decided that the beer being brewed in Vermont under the name “Vermonster” may cause confusion in buyers and be a threat to their billion-dollar enterprise. What the f*c%?!!
In the small, sleepy town of 
“Playing in fields abutting the Stour River as a child, rumours periodically resurfaced about the dreaded Blandford Fly or “Blanny bomber” as it was known to us. No one quite knew what they looked like, but their bites were real enough and the stuff of legend – I can still picture a blister the size of a dinner plate on a neighbour’s leg. I pictured them as huge mutated crane flies with savage, blood-smeared proboscises”.
What if Yoda made wine? And what if instead of focusing on intergalactic peace, the Jedis gathered to taste through barrels of Pinotage and hammer out the intricacies of pruning and soil characteristics?
It’s concluded. For the 27th year in a row, the 
I can only imagine that the whole 3-day affair is akin to a Monster Truck Rally/Beer Rodeo/Science Expo/Mardi Gras Blowout. And lo and behold, Colorado killed it, being the state to receive the most medals for its beers and brewers.
Its about that time. Spices, baby, spices. As the mercury begins to drop, I always become strangely nostalgic. Oh, Fall, you mischevious devil. How do I count the ways I love you? And oh, how you taunt my beer glass with your seasonal delights.
Almost a year ago, one of the first pieces I wrote with a vengeance was about 
I’ve always liked the freaks, the misfits, those that are labeled “quirky”. They’re not easily categorized and usually take some time to understand.
