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Psst. Hey, you? Looking for a good time? We know that forlorn look. We’ve seen it a million times. But fear not, we know someone who has the remedy for your lonesomeness: The Madam. She has the in on the sin in this town. No need to be coy. Many are the man seeking a scratch to the proverbial itch; carnal agitation and unrequited desire are realities as common as they are widespread. They feed her livelihood while she feeds their sufferers’ primal urges. Consider The Madam the physician with the tonic to cure what ails you. Like a medicine-man, she’s carefully cultivated a stock of rather attractive antidotal options, so surely there is one that will stroke your fancy.

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We wear our enthusiasm for beer and the history of brewing on our sleeves, but one glorious sixteen-to-eighteen-day stretch during the onset of autumn, we get to affix that amour to a colorful pair of lederhosen. We are referring, of course, to Bavaria’s epic folk festival, Oktoberfest, during which Munich residents and the many who flock to that German city participate in communal revelry fueled primarily by traditional lager. Being members of a busy brewery half a world away, we aren’t at liberty for a cross-Atlantic trek, but rather than lament geographical shortfalls, we hold our own festivities at our tasting room (this year’s Societe Oktoberfest will take place Saturday, September 30 from noon to 10 p.m.), an essential component of which is our own Oktoberfest Lager, Die Kellnerin. Easy-drinking and exhibiting vibrant floral and mineral notes introduced by industrious lager yeast, it’s a taste of the mutterland in the heart of San Diego.

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A man of the people more concerned with his constituents than himself. ‘Tis a sadly difficult concept to put stock in these days, yet such noble individuals do, indeed, exist. Take, for instance, The Statesman. For years, the masses have been in dire need of this humble-yet-profound individual, but most had resigned themselves to the harsh reality that he may never take a run at the muck-strewn political arena. But just as all hope seemed lost, he tossed his bowler into the ring, eager to show up the gubernatorial flash-in-the-pan flavors of the week what a downhome, pure-of-heart stalwart and pillar of the community could do to return some semblance of a finer and simpler time to his present-day countrymen.

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She’s petite—almost waifish—but don’t let her slightness of size fool you. The Damsel has a lot to offer, and despite literary lore, she is not in need of rescuing. She can (and does) hold her own. But while others pound their chests, proclaiming their superior strength, she keeps her head down, maintaining a low profile and the gracious nobility that is her trademark. She needn’t announce her many virtues, for those who would most appreciate them will take the time to unearth them and hold her in the high regard she so richly deserves. Until then, she extracts sufficient satisfaction from her own inner-might and self-reliance.

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He’ll allow you to go on with your daily rounds, week after week, month after month, completely oblivious to his presence, until your faithful toiling has yielded the results you’ve worked so hard for. And then it shall be his. The focus of his most recent surveilling was a vineyard made lush and rife with tight Grenache Blanc grapes care of the blood and sweat of its tender. That kindly vintner carefully harvested the literal fruits of his labor, readying for the crafting of his newest vintage…but it would never be. For as soon as he turned his back, leaving his horticultural haul unattended, The Thief went from watcher to man of action, skulking into the vineyard to make off with every last grape. By the time that fruit’s rightful owner knew what had happened it was too late. Out of time and out of ingredients, all he could do was hang his head and slink back home, determined to be a stauncher defender come next year’s harvest.

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Within the musical medium, a seemingly small and finite number of keys give way to infinite possibilities based entirely on the instrument of choice, interpretation, creativity and personality of each individual artist. Some channel their breath and energies into woodwinds, while others tickle the ivories or establish rhythmic foundations using drums and percussion. The Fiddler opts for cat-gut strings and a well-rosined bow, neither of which are ever out of his nimble fingers’ reach. To enter the public eye is to face inescapable propositioning from his adoring public. Oft are the occasions when fans rise to their feet at The Fiddler’s arrival, using pleading applause to petition him for an impromptu rendition of one of his sweet melodies. A gifted musician with a generous soul, he obliges as often as possible.

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You’ll find her straddling the line between Belgium and the Czech Republic, wearing little more than a grin. She’s not smiling because she just fooled you into believing the aforementioned countries share a border (though that was rather amusing). The Harlot’s upturned lips and dimpled cheeks merely complete the come-hither guise she’s painted on for the evening. She is filled with an insatiable thirst and she’s not leaving until its quenched. But first she must identify another whose hunger for unadulterated pleasure is as great as hers. It’s no easy feat, but the next carousel rider at her nightly carnival of the flesh shall not be disappointed. This fiery dynamo has a great deal to offer; attributes that go far beyond what’s visible at first glance.

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From bluegrass to death-metal, Old World lagers and Belgian-style ales to hoppy Out West IPAs, Stygian dark beers and Feral wine barrel-aged sours, Societe Brewing Company is a lot of things, but more than anything else, we are the passionate people guided by respect for beer and the art of brewing, doing our best, day-in and day-out, to make this brewery all that it is for all of you. We’re glad so many people appreciate it and are happy to present you to the incredible members of our family.

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You roll along, taking in scenes of uncharted territory while basking in the splendorous freedom of the open road. You have four wheels, a full tank of petrol and not a care in the world. The world is your oyster…or so you mistakenly think. In truth, this particular section of the world belongs to another—The Highwayman. He’s made the tarred narrow swath bisecting these otherwise deserted expanses his own, not by deed or contract, but by sheer force of will. Without a lawman for miles, this strategic hijacker is a self-appointed judge, jury and executioner…if it comes to that. He prefers to merely brandish his club, but the notches inflicted upon it by the skulls of those who would defy The Highwayman’s will are proof that it’s far more than a motivating prop.

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It’s impossible to lay gaze upon The Miser’s wealth of treasures and avoid succumbing to petty jealousy. He has it all, and he has it all on everybody else. But is he happy? Of course he is. He has everything, and your envy is the very proof that material things matter as much as they do. Otherwise, why would he eschew basic gestures of generosity despite having far more than he could ever need? Like all of us, The Miser has chosen what’s important in life, and what means the most to him is stuff, and the accumulation of it. Yes, he has it all…and he intends to keep every bit of it for himself.

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