There's Needles and Grass in m'Beer

Over the last few years, I've unintentionally eased my way  into a mild state of semi-beer-snobbery.  I don't really drink to get hammered very often these days, and I've convinced myself that one really good beer every few days is a reasonable substitute for a healthy obsession with say, PCP or salsa dancing - neither of which really interests me.  So I'd agree with Benjamin Franklin when he said "beer is proof that god loves us," but I'll amend it slightly (since Benji was never forced to try Natty Ice) to "good beer..."  So I enjoy $6/ bottle beer that smells like raisin bread and has stuff floating in it.  That's where I am, and I'm okay with that.  As long as I don't ever get to the point of bemoaning someone offering me a 'crappy' beer, or planning a pilgrimage to Belgium just to have some 'elusive' beer that monks don't want to sell in stores.  

My point is, I like to think that I have some perspective about my snobbery.  I think that's important when you want to really enjoy all the other wonderful simple things life has to offer, or when you have no money.  So when I stumble across the following review - by, oh, let's call him "Mr. X." to make him even more enigmatic - of a bottle of beer (bold = reminder for perspective) - I can't help but wonder how on earth our species has managed things like the polio vaccine, space travel, or Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.

So here it is, Mr. X's beer review that reads like the highlights from a publisher-rejected romance novel:


"Starting with a brilliant and glowing ruby color, the snifter simply glows like a night light. Mildly hazed, the color is of deep amber honey in mesmerizing fashion. Capped with a dainty off-white head, its creme skirts the glass evenly until later in the session when it reduces to a collar along the glass.

Bursting with malt sweetness, the nose is chocked full of maple, buckwheat, molasses, toffee, and nuttiness. Its hearty sweetness nearly whets the mouth from its aromatics alone. A firm hop undertow peaks through with dried citrus peels and pine needles for a strong hop scaffolding although the scent is certainly malt-centric.

Likewise, the sweetness from malt is strong, seductive, and runs the gamut from maple syrup and brittle to bread crust and sorghum. Strong buckwheat honey toffee, pistachios, and fresh sweet tobacco keep the waves of sultry sweetness coming. A late rise of hops reveal a supportive balance with grapefruit and orange peel, pine and fresh grass, and with a deeply resinous bitterness that assists the sweetness with a malty-dry finish and alcohol flavors of spiced rum

Incredibly bold and even chewy at first, the beer seeps into the soft tissues of the mouth with its sultry sweetness in true dessert-like fashion- easily replacing port wines as after dinner digestives. Rich with residual sweetness, the late rise of alcohol spice and drying hops signal closure and extends well into aftertaste."

8 year olds, dude.

But seriously, "Capped with a dainty off-white head, its creme skirts the glass"?  Sounds like an excerpt from a Nabokov knock-off, or...  or ... a wine review.   Here's a not-so-short list of words in this piece that should never, ever appear in a beer review:

night light
mesmerizing
dainty
creme (at least not this French version of the spelling)
skirts
session
undertow
scaffolding
seductive
sultry
needles
grass
soft tissues

(Coincidentally, the only other piece of writing which contains all of these words is "Le Bulion de Goarchende Feuerminteggs," a 19th century French short story about a young accountant, Pierre, who enters the dark, drug-riddled underworld of after hours, cross-dress tax auditing, and in a pot and morphine induced stupor, ends his life by jumping off an under-construction tower into a raging river.)

I wonder if he was listening to Ravel's Bolero, surrounded candlelight while he picked out just the right shirt for his beer 'session.'  For a few moments, I wonder how men who can have such a gloriously romantic evening with a brewski might ever bring themselves to have a highlife at a baseball game, or drive 30 miles for White Castle, or ever meet a woman.  When I process phrases like "the beer seeps into the soft tissues of the mouth with its sultry sweetness," I can't help but think of Adrian Cronauer in "Good Morning Vietnam" telling his Commanding Officer that "(he) is in more dire need of a blowjob than any white man in history." 

I digress.  My aim here isn't just to pick on this connoisseur/wordsmith and his red velvet curtains.  It's to pick on him and make myself feel better about myself and my own, more enlightened perspective.  And what do I think the answer to both my question about how that kind of dude meets women, AND the answer to why his perspective seems so disturbingly skewed?  Of course, it's money.  Money turns uninteresting and obnoxious men into'eligible bachelors.'  Money makes people think things that are exclusive are necessarily valuable.  So valuable, in fact, that they require entire vacations to Belgium to say "I've had Westy 12."  Magically, grapefruits and fresh grass and tobacco and leather suddenly appear in our beers. Beer with a higher pricetag needs to be described as 'sultry' or 'seductive.'  People with the palate of a de-tongued llama amass a bit of wealth, and suddenly, claiming to be able to discern between the Reserva and the Gran Reserva is of urgent importance.

Practically speaking, the sad thing is that the more people have (and express) this sort of attitude about good beer, the more exclusive it will become.  and the more exclusive it becomes, the more expensive it will become - rinse, repeat.  And if I have to pay even more for fantastic beer, well that deserves an emphatic and eloquent "you fuckers" sort of response.

For example, Westvleteren 12, has for a few years at least, been the highest-rated beer in the world.  Coincidentally (or not), you can only legally buy it at one single place in the whole big gigantic goddamned beer-selling world.  The abbey where the monks brew it.  Last year, they had a one-time public sale - you can't blame the monks, who don't sell more than they need to to maintain the monastery, and they sell enough on-site - but they decided on a public sale to pay for some major structural repairs.  Any profit they make goes to charity.  Six packs were sent to select stores in the U.S., in some, not all states.  The six-packs sold retail for about $85 (yes, that's still almost $15/bottle).  Within days, they were selling for $500 or more online.  There is an empty Westy 12 six-pack box  selling for $100 right now - no beer included - I can't even fathom the level of douchebaggery it would take to justify spending 45 BK doublestackers worth of cash (plus shipping) on the cardboard box of a beer you never even drank.  There are 4 or 5 beers on the shelf at the Hi-Vee down the road from me which even the nerdiest beer-nerd will admit are pretty-much-almost as good as Westy 12 (if not better), and they sell for $3-$6 a bottle.  This is the madness that the expensive/exclusive cycle drives us to - moneytoburn-ness causes us to believe that there is inherent value in something that is hard to get.

My guess is, that's Mr. X's problem.  He may have, at one time, been a mild-mannered accountant, minding his own business and enjoying the simple things in life, playing Punch-Out during his MillerTime.  It could be that the mysterious death of a senior account manager opened the perfect opportunity for him, and that the money turned his soul darker than a Russian Imperial Stout -- that his love affair with nuttiness, hop scaffolding and sultry malt undertows drove his friends and family away.  He may drive up and down the coast with his new gold-plated cronies, buying everyone out of the most sought after craft brews so he can stock his beer aging cellar and keep the promise of the finest reviews and higher prices for years to come.  It could happen.  Who knows.  Or maybe he's just a huge fucking dork. 

THE WORLD ISN'T GETTING SMALLER, STUPID

- it's getting more full of our shit, and the internet is getting 'bigger.'

- it still takes just as long to get from milwaukee to madison, from new york to miami. planes aren't flying faster, cars aren't traveling at low-bit rate digital speeds.

- you can still buy land in montana, build a hut, buy a gross of freeze-dried food and a crossbow, and never see another human for as long as you live.

- if you wait a few years, everest's peak won't be within your capabilities.

- it's not getting smaller, because apparently distance never had any relevance anyway: http://www.trialectics.com/Physics/Quantum%20Nonlocality.htm

- hulu is sucking out our brains, which you'd think would make the world seem bigger.

that is all.

PACKERS' PLOT UNCOVERED

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Doctors Report Emperor Palpatine's Dementia Worsening, Empire Fucked

by Alphuster Mervleputz, updated 11am ET 5/13/09

Empire physicians (pictured above with Mr. Palpatine) reported Monday that the Emperor's condition has worsened, and that his delusions have nearly eclipsed his rational view of the galaxy. Insistent on wearing robes he purchased in Liberace's estate sale, the Emperor has proclaimed that a Mr. "God," and his son, a Mr. "Jeeves Cryste," are responsible for creation and salvation, respectively -- and that it is his duty to oversee that all of this goes according to plan.

Meanwhile, the Empire's foundation seems to be eroding due to a lack of competent executive direction. The man many think of as Mr. Palpatine's second-in-command, Mr. Vader, has been missing since early March -- and many fear recent events and work-related stress have pushed Mr. Vader back to old drug habits, and that he is lost somewhere in the K-hole. In an anonymous call to the Times on Friday, a source reported that Vader was "totally fucked, dude. Why do you care about my friend, man, where's my sandwiches? I called like almost an hour ago and I'm STARVED!"

Other reports indicate that the safety of the new battlestation "Death Star," scheduled for completion next month, may be compromised as well, as a set of catastrophic-weakness-plans is apparently missing. Those responsible have been sacked. All attempts to reach the mysterious Mr. Cryste (in the desperate hope that he actually exists outside of Mr. Palpatines distorted sense of reality) to procure a solution for the Galaxy's problems have failed.

HOPE FOR INVESTORS DUPED IN GEORGE WASHINGTON PONZI SCHEME

by Finkleton Pollutes, updated 10am ET

Some hope remains for investors duped by founding father George Washington (pictured), as it appears billions were withdrawn from Mr. Washington's account just days before his arrest. "Few men have virtue to withstand the highest bidder, " said Washington Tuesday, dodging a question from a reporter inquiring as to his ridiculous age(277) and young appearance.

It is perhaps his mysterious exuberance which has grown Mr. Washington's popularity among impressionable youths. His spoutings on the dangers of a powerful central government (usually in response to questions about his financial transgressions) have riled up young Americans unhappy with the prospect of "just another king," as one revolutionary-studies-major-from NYU-gone-Washington-groupie put it.

When asked about sentencing for financial crimes, Washington responded "Government is not reason; it is not eloquent; it is force. Like fire, it is a dangerous servant and a fearful master. "

regional silverware

we got a coupon

expires February 31^st

some days i hope i last that long

others, not past the 23^rd,

four days of revealing

the darkened corners

of three year old unfinished business,

one day of draining

into a slowly cooling tub

(but i’ve not got it in me,

that roman trip that falls

on a well placed blade,

just before being conquered

i know it.

christ nick,

i’m not sure you had it either

if not for the drugs)

when you throw up

and it’s made of well cut diamonds,

rare as the Strangemorning,

hot as the things hiding behind the sun –

don’t you think you’ve peaked,

doesn’t a glass half full become quite a boring issue?

but there are ridiculous beats

that bring us out of winter

bass drums that make it warm

milwaukeeans who aren’t always drinking

humid and dry and nowhere inbetween,

peter, peter, making stew,

pete, you’ve got a lila blue

and a room of chops,

shaken in a glued-down chair

green lights on a road of stops

small car with curious hands

quick stops for pissing

long times for wide states

signs, the welcomes of governors

at night, in the rain

through eastern pennsylvania

up and down again,

through jersey and her bastard trucks

toward the ocean

seldom seen

near the hudson

far from clean

belly up, the less of luck

some misplaced loudmouth

spouting at the wrong fuck

shaking his fists and dying his death in a cold arrival.

i’m here to see it

i’m here to want home and enjoy the one i’ve made

i’m here to raise the whisper of a midwestern spoon

to the curdled scream of an east coast blade.

lung breathers

all torn around the room, sleeves slid downward

and i’m done again with brain drops on the window outside.

some mad cricket can’t see no one’s interested

contains the why is bleeding by, blazing sped of offish vectors

driven mad by brainy sky, hazing head of office lectures

make it work the way i asked and care enough

and stop your contents.

my stirring hand needs more beer when i’m not allowed.

there’s been so little weather and it makes us sick,

sun that rises like it has to, three or four minutes of brain,

out to the ocean, where no one feels the pour

and lungs make the quiet not so,

heaving liquid down the hatch, panicked death of a mad cricket

if i’d gills, the blackened divide, sharing space with upward endless

would be the mile i’d walk around

leaving legs for a breathing, a melted sort of walkupon.

it’s raining on my house of water,

i care enough, i’ve found my contents

right beside the bordered bed

of living laterally,

rotating far from any sort of real dark place

i’ve never made in my mind the nothinggrand

like waves can make without the effort

saying not and still it means

the icy stare of space betweens

i think a few have, but most of them are dead,

conquered, quite plainly

knights of infinite resignation with no castle to defend