Man Complaining About Beer Seemingly Oblivious To Living Conditions in Third World Countries

PORTLAND, OR – In a baffling display that can only be attributed to ignorance or plain old cruelty, local man Ryan Balmer spent last Saturday complaining about beer while several thousand children in the third world starved to death.

Seemingly unfazed by that fact that his beer cost several times more than what nearly half of humanity earns as a daily wage, Balmer raised his glass, squinted his nose, and made a disgusted face after taking his first sip. After several seconds of staring at a product that contains more clean water than is readily accessible to a large portion of human society, the self-described “beer enthusiast” peppered the tired, overworked bartender with oddly specific questions.

“The description says Galaxy hops, but they really tastes more like Citras, if we’re being honest,” Balmer quipped as he demanded a new drink, not in the least deterred that he was about to waste more calories than some people eat in a day. “It’s like, if you’re going to brew it with those hops, it better taste like those hops, right? Not like it’s hard.”

As he took a bite of the pizza he’d ordered as an afterthought accessory to his beverage (a meal someone might literally kill him for on the streets of Venezuela), Balmer compared the beer he was drinking to a dozen others, unaware that, in light of the reality that more boys were forced to become child soldiers that very afternoon, no one gave a shit. He then utilized more technology than is available to some small governments, smearing a greasy finger across his phone screen to check the beer in and give it 2 stars on Untappd.

After consuming enough beer to be labeled “a fire demon” by a tribal shaman, Balmer began ranting about the dangers of corporately made beer. “We can’t trust Anheuser-Busch, man. The consumer knows what’s up now. We need to boycott them and all the sellouts they bought,” he lamented, perfectly happy with the cognitive dissonance required to complain about a corporation whose profits exceed the GDP of some nations. “They want to destroy craft beer. It’s immoral and unethical and wrong. We can’t allow that bullshit,” Balmer continued, adding an apparent lack of understanding about economics and business succession to his already below average knowledge of the rest of the planet.

Sitting in a bar that not only had consistent electricity, but also significantly more structural integrity than many people’s homes, Balmer expanded upon the problems in the beer community. “There’s no bubble, man; craft beer is a cultural revolution,” he noted, oblivious to the actual, horribly violent political and social revolutions happening in several war-torn countries. “The world is changing, and beer is the catalyst. I tell you man, it’s happening right here and right now.” Balmer then burped and slammed his fist against his chest in a vain attempt to remedy his heartburn, a feeling and concept entirely foreign to the millions of people who often don’t get the required macronutrients to grow healthy bones.

As he waited for his Uber driver, a visibly intoxicated Balmer began to explain the brewing process to the clearly disaffected hostess, either completely culturally blind to, or just unwilling to admit the fact that the barley used to make his booze could feed entire towns in Africa and South America for months.

Sources confirm that upon arriving home, Balmer sat down in front of his TV, quickly changing the channel from a Christian Children’s Fund commercial before opening another beer.

The Big Beer Conspiracies – If you can’t Beat ‘um, Buy ‘um

Did you guys see that? That jet’s chemtrails totally spelled out my name for a second there. I swear.

Anyways, by now you’ve heard (and are sick of) the news. Blah blah, AB InBev bought Goose Island, and 10-Barrel, and Elysian. It happened. It was no big deal. Or a really big deal. Or sort of bad. Or really good?

Jury’s still out (but not on my case, I’ve been upgraded from “trespassing” to “pending psychological evaluation”).

While news like this always shocks, appearing as if by spontaneous generation from the social media feeds of brewers we’ve long imbibed, it’s an inevitability. AB InBev (and to a slightly lesser extent their conglomerate peers at SABMiller) is losing the beer war one brewery battle at a time. Bud sales continue to roll downhill, and the flat bottom or an upward turn seem impossibly distant. They’ve tried throwing fistfuls of hundreds at the problem, tried marketing, tried gimmicks, tried to tap into a generation that for the most part, doesn’t care at all about their corporate messaging or demographic targeting.

But they’re losing. Slowly maybe, but still losing. And losing money. That has to chap some suit-covered asses.

Every time I think about this situation, my mind wanders back around to the beer itself: if AB InBev concedes ground where it comes down to quality, why don’t they just invest some of their massive resources to brew a beer that appeals to those drinkers cutting into their market? Why not fight fire with fire, dry-hopping with dry-hopping, exotic yeast with exotic yeast? It seems like a no-brainer from the sidelines, and I can never quite lift the baffling fog of why they haven’t at least tried in the modern beer world (we’ll ignore Budweiser American Ale for now because that’s convenient to my argument).

Aside from the obvious image problem AB InBev has with younger drinkers, that’s not how a massive, multinational corporation rolls. Walmart doesn’t really care if Target’s good and services are better, they only care that their prices are cheap enough to get shoppers in the door. TimeWarner doesn’t care if your internet is slow or a jackalope has made a nest in your modem, they only care that it works well enough that you pay your monthly bill. Much the same, AB InBev doesn’t appear to be in the game of making beer people want to drink, they appear to be in the game of making money by producing beer that is 1) “acceptable enough that the consumer buys it” while also being 2) “made as cheaply as possible to meet requirement 1.”

That’s it. They don’t care if we like the beer, they only care if we buy it (as an aside, I think this is the crux of the defintion debate in “craft:” indie brewers let beer drive the money while big brewers let money drive the beer).

Why would they try to compete directly with any of the very highly rated and well-loved breweries in the country when that amounts to a big, risky expenditure of resources and a crap load of work? It’s much easier for them to buy existing large breweries and assimilate their fan base instead, thereby making the previously independent brewery’s success AB InBev’s by managerial association. Way less work, no direct competition with pesky things like “consumer satisfaction,” and all that juicy profit sharing.

But none of this is really news, or part of any conspiracy. It’s Capitalism doing what Capitalism does. No, the conspiracy hides behind the kerfuffle of beer dudes arguing over whether Elysian is still craft or not (guilty as charged), and in clandestine meetings under the cover of public din:

Big beer is buying up large breweries as a smokescreen for changing distribution and manipulating the way beer is sold in this country.

Boom.

Chris Barnes of I Think About Beer notes that AB InBev spends a pretty penny on lawyers and lobbyist, and have snatched up distributors in the states where it’s legal to do so, all to mold how beer is sold and distributed in various states. While Big Beer purchasing a single brewery might cause that brewery to lose some favor, or (potentially) decline in quality over time as ingredients are (potentially) changed, that’s not the end of the world. Sucks for said brewery and its fans, but that won’t spell the end of independent brewing alone.

But if AB-InBev manages to monopolize the distribution chain, or dramatically change how the three-tier system works, they can then control what beers show up in what bars, what bottles on what shelves, and ultimately, what liquid goes down your, my, and everyone’s gullet. They can stymie the growth of smaller, independent breweries by lobbying to keep barrel threshold caps low, and keep breweries from directly selling to their consumers. They’ll twist and mangle the wreckage of the distribution networks so that local breweries can’t sell anything, anywhere without AB InBev having a hand in their business (and their wallets).

That’s where their financial power and underhanded business practices start to get scary. They don’t even plan to fight “good” beer head-to-head, because they know they’ll lose in terms of taste and consumer interest. Instead they’re changing the battlefield, methodically working to make sure consumers can’t even buy “good” beer through wanton destruction of competition. But at the same time, they’re not stupid, and recognize a growing number of people won’t buy Bud, even if it’s the only option. They’ll buy up enough breweries to keep the 10% “craft portion” sedated with a heavy dose of hops, and then do everything in their power to wrestle back the market share they’ve lost by making sure that when any person buys a beer, their only option is to buy an AB InBev beer.

So while we squabble and wail at the defilement of our culture, the gears clunk and shift in the background. We’re being fleeced by the cool and calm Carlos Brito, lead to believe this is a war of philosophy and ethics, of “us vs. them” binaries, when it’s really a war of preserving our freedom of choice. It’s about one player controlling the whole board, but convincing you that Park Place and Boardwalk are still great places to visit while they line their pockets with all those fat tourism dollars.

Pass me my tinfoil hat (it’s over there, next to that cast of the Sasquatch foot I paid $1000 for on eBay because it’s totally legit); I’ll whirl us even further down Alice’s LSD spiked rabbit hole of Dystopian beer future.

If this trend continues, and AB-InBev gets its way, we’ll see a “Walmartization” of all American beer, where the few products they sling are so affordable and so readily available (but just tasty enough) that most people buy them out of laziness and cheapness. We’ll see large, chained, retail stores that sell AB InBev products and nothing else, and they’ll be so successful that any small breweries who want to compete will have to “pay-to-play” to get on the shelves. And then, as we’re all still bickering on Twitter, the beer industry will slip back to the post-Prohibition number of breweries because no little guy can compete, and eventually, given enough time and market control, degrade to a situation where all beer is generic, cheaply made barley-identifiable-as-beer liquid that sells really well because no one knows any better but still want to get drunk.

Wait a second…

Oh, no, we’re OK. I thought I those chemtrails were making death threats.

The next time AB InBev buys up a brewery (and they will buy others), take a look at what else they’re doing. I wouldn’t be shocked if oh so coincidentally, at the very same time, bills were being voted on, people were being elected, or policy was being reviewed. Even if they start to posture, put out commercials that claim they care about beer, remember that in the Brito bubble, beer = money. Don’t be fooled into thinking that AB InBev is going to fight chivalrously. If they ever show up to duel, it’ll be with poisoned spear tips and snipers in the crowds.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go clean a Jackalope nest out of my modem.

Introducing Pintiptor™ – A Treatment for your Moderate to Severe Hopothermia

::Fade in to man washing dishes in a brightly lit, country-style kitchen::

“I’m not just a beer drinker; I’m a beer enthusiast. But when I noticed that my every conversation inevitably turned to beer, and saw all my friends roll their eyes and make excuses to get away from me at parties, I decided it was time to go see my doctor.”

::Cut to scene of man rubbing his throat and wincing, trying to talk to his doctor::

“My doctor told me I was suffering from Hopothermia, a relatively common condition that affects 40-50 percent of all craft beer drinkers between the ages of 21 and 85. Hopothermia numbs the lining of your tongue and brain, causing taste bud amnesia and temporary insanity. When I began to tell my doctor my feelings about AB-InBev’s purchase of 10 Barrel Brewing, he prescribed Pintiptor™ (Imbibvimutinal).”

::Cut to scene of smiling man lifting five-gallon carboys of golden-colored liquids::

Soothing Voiceover: When rambling on Facebook and Twitter aren’t enough, adding Pintiptor™ can help reduce the chances of boring everyone around you. Pintiptor™ helps to assuage your need to scrutinize every business decision in the brewing industry by pinpointing the receptors in your brain that help you remember that you started drinking beer because it tastes good. In clinical trials, patients saw a 100 percent increase in drinking beer without overthinking it. Beer drinking adults reported a 50 percent reduction in having opinions about Stone Brewing in as little as four months when taking Pintiptor™.

::Cut to scene of man smiling with his wife, sharing a bomber of local beer::

Soothing Voiceover: Pintiptor™ is not for everyone; including people with liver problems and women who are nursing, pregnant, or may become pregnant. Tell your doctor if you are on any other medications, or experience any strong opinions about wine or scotch, as this may be the sign of seriously annoying side effect. 

Pintiptor™ can lower your ability to fight internet trolls, including beer snobs. Serious and sometimes embarrassing side effects like vomiting in public, sleeping past noon on a Saturday, and having to admit you don’t know when the latest hyped seasonal will be released can occur. Before starting Pintiptor™, ask your doctor to test you for pretentiousness. Ask your doctor if you live in or have been to a region where certain yeast infections are common. High blood sugar and original gravity has been reported in patients who take Pintiptor™. Other risks include increased drymouth, lack of ability to make small talk in taprooms, flavor overload, people thinking you’re a cool person, forgetting how to use Twitter, and simple beer appreciation, which may become permanent. Call your doctor if you experience worsening symptoms, or suddenly develop an interest in the grooming habits of Greg Koch or Garrett Oliver. 

::Cut to scene of man sitting at table in restaurant with friends, laughing and drinking a plain old amber ale::

“It feels great to drink beer just to enjoy it again.”

Soothing Voiceover: Tell your doctor if you’ve ever had beard envy, malt mania, or brewer’s elbow, or are prone to hypochondria. You should not start Pintiptor™ if you have any kind of real, financial stake in the brewing industry.

If you can’t afford your medication, AstraZeneca and MillerCoors may be able to help.

::Show Pintiptor™ Logo::

Enjoy beer again. Ask your doctor about Pintiptor™ today.

::Fade out::

You don’t have to live with Hopothermia. But it wouldn’t be so bad. This is a great beer.

The Big Beer Conspiracies – The Shock behind the Top

I wore my finest tinfoil hat a few weeks ago when I probed the malty innards of Miller’s marketing monstrosity, Fortune, but that entire post was built from my own subjective interpretation of events. I had no proof of my assertions, just a hunch, an inkling, a little trickle of doubt that I saw turning into a deluge of truth at some point in the future.

But this time around, my crazy conspiracy actually has some tangible heft (in the form of documentation). I found a mangy little JPEG bouncing around Twitter and can’t attest to it’s veracity, but it certainly looks real enough, and if not just a clever piece of satire, reaffirms a lot of what I’ve thought about Big Beer’s approach for a long time now.

Shocking Top

Anyone who has ventured deep into the dusty aisles of beer stores of late knows about Shock Top. It’s right there in cans and bottles, sixers and mixers, the silly anthropomorphic slice of orange logo grinning at you from his banner of “Belgian White.” It’s popularity (and in turn production) surged 61% in 2011-2012, and it surpassed all the other rapidly expanding breweries, like Lagunitas and Bells.

The beer is right smack in the middle of what I’d very scientifically describe  as “meh.” But I’m not here to bash the beer. It’s not to my taste or something I’d buy, but a lot of people like it (if sales figures are to be trusted) and I’m not one to objectively analyze subjective wants and likes.

No, let’s leave the beer itself out of this. Instead, let’s focus on the creeping, sneaking message behind the beer.

It’s something a lot of those with their ear to the brewery floor have known for a long time: Shock Top lives a dirty, dirty lie. Like it’s competitive brethren, it wants you to believe that it was crafted delicately, intentionally, by a local, small brewery who cares about their beer and their customers. A meticulously crafted campaign dances on the beer store stage like an ornate Kabuki mask, distracting you, deceiving you, convincing you that you’re buying into the decadent world of craft beer every time you walk out of the store with a twelve pack of Shock Top on your arm.

Shock Top is owned and brewed by Labatt and ABInBev (a massive conglomerate that holds 47.2% of the beer market share in the US), not some local, small, craft brewery. The majority of people associated with beer already knew this, and the merits of “pseudo craft beers” have long been argued and analyzed in the “craft vs. crafty” debate. Most of the argument comes down to economics, with the Brewer’s Association (I might argue rightfully) not wanting the massive behemoths of beer cutting into their market share with dubious advertising strategies instead of competitive products.

But the “problem” with crafty beer was nebulous and hard to pin down, especially when trying to explain the differences between Shock Top and say, Allagash White, to the non-brewing savvy public. There was little to go on other than, “it’s brewed by a huge corporation and that makes it evil beer or something.” The defenders of small and local didn’t exactly have the strongest rhetorical basis in the world.

Until now.

Proof! Long beautiful proof

This image appears to be a “Connections Brief” from Labatt/ABInBev regarding their marketing plans for Shock Top. While jargon-stained copy is typically boring and inconsequential, this particular document reveals a lot about how Big Beer views its consumers, and how they view beer, as a commodity, in general:

The main (and really only) ruse that Shock Top intends to perpetuate is that it comes from a “small brewer.”

This is the beating heart of the hideous beerbeast, the one thing it must do to continue feeding on the consumer dollars it needs to live. For a while, you could have considered that a side-effect of that brand, or some other unlucky coincidence, but here we see that this behavior is deliberate and intentional, the malicious brain child of an earnings report meeting and the executive board.

Regardless of how the beer tastes or if you like it, Labatt/ABInBev is lying to you to sell its product.

Sure, it’s lying by omission (as they’re not actively denying that Shock Top is brewed by a big company if you look into it), but it’s still lying. And that, as a consumer with dollars to spend, should piss you off. They want you to believe this came form that little guy down the street, the one who poured her entire life into a small business, who just wants to brew good tasting beer and sell enough of it to make a living doing what she loves. I’ve got news for you: the average small brewer doesn’t use phrases like, “drive penetration with Experience Maximizers in the “Reward Myself” need state.” 

I mean holy shit, they don’t even call it beer, they call it “approachable liquid.”

Bad gets worse

Perhaps even more egregious than the omission of key information is the fact that Labatt is playing into the “craft beer is confusing and intimidating” idea. Their anecdotal drinker, “Matt,” claims (in rather palpably business-like tones) that most craft beers are too pretentious for him to even try them. This is Labatt swinging a baseball bat and hitting two demographics squarely in the jaw in the same follow through. First, they’re insulting their own demographic, suggesting they’re not sophisticated or educated enough to make their own choices about what to drink, and second, they’re insulting those who do choose to drink other beer, dismissing them as pretentious assholes.

To finish off this cavalcade of corporate shenanigans, Labatt has a plan to continue to “maintain micro/craft credentials” even though it doesn’t have any to begin with. Their entire campaign to sell an incredible 40% more beer is built off of the backs of all those small business based breweries (some who are still struggling financially), riding the “craft beer revolution” without actually adding anything to it, and literally cashing in on an insane amount of money in the process.

The whole point of this renaissance in beer is to give beer enthusiasts higher quality, better tasting options. It’s also sort of a grassroots resurgence in supporting local small business, giving back to your community economically, saying hell no to big-box and hell yes to family owned and run. Labatt doesn’t care about that. They don’t care about local economies, and more importantly they don’t care about the people they’re foisting their product on.

To the brewer down the street who puts a little bit of her own soul into every batch she brews, you’re a valued customer keeping her business afloat. To Labatt, ABInBev, and all the other big beer guys, you’re just a wallet that they need to set to the “Reward myself” need state.

And now we have the proof.

As an added bonus, I managed to find the original tracked changes version of the Connects Briefing with some notes that didn’t make it into the final:

(For the record, this last image is a recreation and a poor attempt at satire, I’m not some amazing hacker who can find old documents. Sadly, scarily, the original document is real as far as I can tell.)

Beer Review: Southern Tier Warlock

I made a promise to myself last year, after I burped the last of my cinnamon and spice binge into the ether. I swore, to the old gods and the new, to my inner demons and guardian angels, to all the demigods of diet and phantasms of flavor. I vowed and declared and committed not to give in to the siren song of gourd whispering to me on the autumn wind, that this year in beer would prove different.

I made an oath in those dark winter months, in the foggy hangover of post holiday splurge. I signed it with the alcohol in my blood and the sugar on my breath. A contract with one a relatively simple clause: do not drink any pumpkin beer until at least October 1st, 2014.

It was not an agreement I entered into lightly, for my weak, mortal side craves the succulent orange flesh in pie, in coffee, in all unholy abominations of pumpkin and product. I know it’s wrong to lust after brown sugar and nutmeg, to let a cultivar cultivate my destiny, but I’m just a man. Seasonal creep sneaks and slithers onto me, seductively suggesting I take a nice clean bite from that orange apple, season and weather be damned.

At first, I held strong. Summer’s insistence on postponing his vacation to the other side of the planet gave me strength. The orange, brown, and black of the labels did not sway my conviction, and I walked past them boldly, bravely, to other, less obnoxious fermented fare. The Pumpking held no regal power over me, the Great’er proved lesser. IPAs bolstered my resolve, and Marzens marched across my tongue and down my throat in a delicious cavalcade of beverages that were decidedly free from pumpkin. I thought I could do it. Thought the vine fruit would be defeated, left to bake until its time was ripe some time near Halloween.

But such dark energy is not to be denied. The pumpkin, knowing my devotion to the cause, summoned his darkest agents, the most twisted and malevolent of his creations, to bring me back into the fold. Little by little, day by day, the jolly jack-o-lantern chipped away at me. Every sign of Fall, every crunchy brown leaf, every slight whiff of cloves or ginger fed the entropy, increased my desire to sup at the forbidden table, sip from the forbidden cup.

From the soul of his stout, inky black soul, he captured, raptured, and ultimately tore my pledge in two. I let his eight armed ABV wash over me, surrendering, suffering, savoring.

I drank the Warlock. I broke the oath.

I am the warlock. I am the oathbreaker.

And now as his energy surges through my veins, I know that no matter how silly or sickening, how gimmicky or gauche, I will give into him, because hot damn, I love pumpkin flavored crap.

“Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.” ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Nothing Gets Past Me, I’m the Age Verification System

Hey, stop right there. Yea, you, the one with the greasy mitts on that keyboard, trying to sneak by me like some kind of animal who is inherently sneaky, like a fox or something. Who do you think you are?

You think you can type in that URL and waltz in here like the belle of some fancy ball that I didn’t get invited to because I’m socially awkward? Well you better think again, cupcake. This here brewing website falls squarely in the lands of my jurisdiction, my protectorate, my realm. I’m the shining armored knightly savior turned bouncer because he was low on cash after all the dragons migrated south for the winter. I’m it, the glacial wall, the Tim Howard of this website. I, in all my power and glory, am the Age Verification System.

I have one job, and it’s to keep underage law-breakers like you from entering this site before you’ve seen at least 252 moons (maybe 253 depending on how blue those moons got). We can’t just have innocent children looking at label art or reading descriptions of beer; we don’t know what the long term ramifications of such wanton hedonism could lead to. We need to protect the innocent young folks out there from the slinking, smirking evils of taproom hours and release updates. If someone doesn’t put the children first, they’ll end up last, or possibly third or fourth which is just as bad, really.

So here I stand, questioning, probing, challenging, keeping this law all legal and stuff. You want in? You want to cross this SSL threshold and enter this veritable Valhalla? Fine, but I’m not going to make it easy. You have to prove yourself. Test your mettle. Show you’re experienced enough to take on this quest.

You ready?

Question the first!

Are you at least twenty-one years old!?

Yea?

OK, well off you go then.

What, no, I don’t need to see your ID. I trust you. I mean, if we can’t just trust each other, what kind of world do we have to accept that we live in? No, no, you’re good, I don’t need any proof. I was just encouraged to ask, not by law like I suggested before (at least in the USA), but because of a vague recommendation established by the FTC in 2008.

Since I know you’re 21 now, I’d like to suggest that in the future you bring a box of cookies and walk right through this completely unguarded door on my left, but my boss has sort of demanded that I ask you how old you are every time you visit. Yea, I don’t get it either, but thems the breaks. At least he’s just using the yes or no method; can you imagine how annoying it would be if you had to give me your full date of birth every time? You’d probably just start making it up after a while.

I know, right? An underage kid can physically walk into a liquor store and wander around unimpeded as long as they don’t physically handle the alcohol, so you’d think this sort of superfluous annoyance would phase out because of basic logic. Heh, look at me, talking myself out of a job again. My first gig was in the porn industry (look, I was young, needed money, and the dragons had all flown south for the winter), but despite a robust selection of employers, my particular skill set soon became obsolete. Mostly because everyone realized that leaving one unarmed guard at the front door to a building with 5,000,000 backdoors was a less than efficient security system. But honesty, I only stand here and guard the site because I’m supposed to. I work to live, not live to work, you know?

Look, I want to protect the kids. I really do. They’re our future (or so Whitney Houston lead me to believe), and we should do our best not to expose them to all sorts of brain altering crap before they’ve had a chance to mature properly. That’s why I stand here, the ever faithful watch dog. I can’t have a buzzed teenager on my conscience.

Yea. It does seems sort of pointless given the exposure they’ll get to much, much worse than the contents of a brewery’s website on television, on the radio, in magazines, from their peers, from their parents, from professional athletes, or from pretty much every conceivable source of media extant in the world today.

But I’m not here to sort out what’s totally pointless, and what’s only kind of totally pointless.

I just want to do my job. If you’re going in, go in, otherwise I might forget who you are and be required to ask you how old you are again. Wait, it has already been too long. I can’t trust you’re the same age you were 5 minutes ago.

Are you at least twenty-one years old!?

Yea?

Alright sweet, enjoy your visit.

“Great effort is required to arrest decay and restore vigor. One must exercise proper deliberation, plan carefully before making a move, and be alert in guarding against relapse following a renaissance.” – Horace

Session #86 – Obituary: Beer Journalism

Heather Vandenengel of Beer Hobo is hosting the 86th iteration of The Session. This month’s very a propos topic: Beer Journalism. Special thanks to Bryan D. Roth for playing harp to my fiddle on this one. A more thoughtful follow-up on the topic will be posted tomorrow.

ANYTOWN, U.S.A — It is with heavy heart that we must report the passing of Modern Beer Journalism. In a classic example of the wrong place at the wrong time, he was tragically caught in a hail of bad grammar and poor research outside of a beer blog at 9:42 PM, June 23, 2012. He was 18 hours old.

Modern Beer Journalism (or BJ, as he was known to his friends) was born, brimming and spilling, into a world of digital possibility. While many were concerned that being reared and raised by poorly educated rampant optimists might hinder his development, others noted that BJ bore the intellectual hallmarks of beer evangelist Michael Jackson. Some in the industry thought he may, with time, prove a prodigy, a keg of  insight just waiting to be tapped so that all his bubbly wisdom could fill glasses that had been dry and empty for too long. But this world is a cruel place, filled with memes and Buzzfeed quizzes and countless other machinations of time-wasting evil. Because of his low-birth, he was never able to live up to his role model; a bud snipped before we ever got a chance to see what flower might bloom.

BJ started writing at a young age. Much of his work was derivative and trite, focusing on meaningless cultural ephemera and faddish trends du jour. For a period, he wrote nothing but “Top 10 Beers to Drink in Summer” articles, thinking that truly, deeply, passionately, people actually gave a shit about his hastily scrawled dreck. He never seemed able to shake the misogyny that hid deep in his psyche, nor his crippling and honestly depressing lack of self-awareness, probably because he was so drunk all the time. But the fact that he was writing anything at all provoked people into thinking there was potential. His writing was important to the beer and to the people behind the beer. Without the words and stories, the voice of the brewer was like a beautiful ’65 Fender Stratocaster unplugged, unamplified. A few stellar examples of his prose beamed starlight splendor across the internet, and even those outside of the brewed world took note. For a fleeting second, like that moment of beauty before the diaphanous fragility of a soap bubble collides with the hard ground, Modern Beer Journalism burned with vivacious fire.

But like many young people, BJ fell to the intoxicating rush of instant internet gratification. He began hanging out with the curt and oft misunderstood Twitter gang, spending all day retweeting junk, even though he knew it was bad for him. He became obsessed with pointless minutiae; how many hops a brewer could cram into a pint, how much theoretical “imperial” was possible before the beer was akin to paint thinner. His inborn lust for truth was replaced by a lust for attention, attention gained through sloppy, gimmicky novelties and a personality that never flirted with anything beyond the most shallow pools of obvious empiricism. He grew, eventually, to be a shadow of the man he should have been; a cheap facsimile that bore BJs name, but none of the power of his pedigree.

While the police have not released an official statement, many of those close to the family suspect foul play in relation to BJ’s death, and sources tell this reporter that Vani, aka “The Food Babe,” has been detained for questioning. Authorities are also on the lookout for several hundred others masquerading as “writers,”  all of who are suspected of having ties the Facebook Mafia, the blurry Instagram Mob, and other seedy organizations.

BJ is survived by a small group of close colleagues, who, with a lot of work and a little bit of luck, might be able to bring honor to his lost legacy, and make the future of Modern Beer Journalism bright. In place of flowers, please read BJ’s birth announcement (originally reported by Bryan D. Roth) so that we may remember him in a time where we just assumed he’d suck, and hadn’t yet been proved right.

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

 

 

The Big Beer Conspiracies – Miller Fortune is in the Cards

I want to preface this post by saying that I am a normal, rational human being and don’t buy into any conspiracy theories/cryptozoological phenomenon except: Sasquatch, chemtrails, Area 51, Elvis still being alive, the British Royal family being lizard people from space, aliens building the pyramids, the lost city of Atlantis, HAARP, and New Coke.

I definitely didn’t consider the X-Files a very well done, long-running documentary series, so don’t ask (because they’re listening).

::repositions tinfoil hat::

Like any good conspiracy theorist, I’m not going to let finicky facts or dubious data get in the way of what I believe. I’m just gonna go with what my gut (and the chip implanted in my skull) is telling me on this one:

Big Beer (read MillerCoors and ABInBev) is intentionally brewing bad beer to trick macro drinkers into staying loyal to their mainstay beers.

Not following? The proof is right in front of us, we just have to open our eyes to the truth.

Take the new Miller Fortune, for example. The Miller marketing masterminds are throwing every craft-like thing they can at this beer, from its description including “hints of bourbon” (which may or may not be trying to reference the run of bourbon aged craft beers we’ve seen of late), trying to serve it in special glassware, and this direct quote from the press release that suggests this beer will transcend normal drinking somehow:

“With that in mind, we developed Miller Fortune to provide consumers with a unique and deliciously balanced option to elevate their drinking experience.”

They want Joe-Adjunct-Lager to think this is a craft beer. Or at the very least, representative of craft beer. They want every average Miller Lite jockey to pick this up and assume they’re in on the “craft beer scene” by drinking this beer. That’s a key step to this whole, sneaky process.

There’s one fatal flaw that contradicts all of the sleek promotional gimmicks: it tastes like Jersey Devil urine. OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration. It tastes more like hummus that rolled out of a grocery bag in the trunk of someone’s Toyota Prius only to be discovered, fuzzing with green life, some indeterminable amount of time later. No, no, too extreme. But it does have a certain, familiar, wretch-inducing aroma. A taste like a wisp of memory on my tongue, of a time spent blurred, on a college campus but not part of this reality, with large glass bottles taped to my hands.

Ah, yes. Malt liquor. That’s the taste I was looking for.

You could do a blind taste test, and I’d put $1000 dollars on no one, not even the most refined Colt 45 connoisseur, being able to pick out Miller Fortune in a line up with Olde English 800, Hurricane High Gravity, and (my personal favorite) King Cobra. I should also note that MillerCoors owns the Olde English 800 brand, and it may have crossed my mind that all they did was pour some of that into different bottles, garnish it with a fancy ad campaign, and hope no one noticed. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.

Even if it is just re-branded 40oz gold, it still doesn’t taste good. I guess the 6.9% ABV is supposed to offset this by sheer factors of drunkification, but if this is supposed to be some new flavor territory just waiting to be charted by adventurous, treasure seeking, beer archaeologists, it fails. This is like Indiana Jones and the Walmart Crusade. A bad idea that should have never left the brainstorming session, horribly executed to the tune of several million dollars.

It’s a bad beer. I think it was brewed that way deliberately. But why? Because craft (or whatever we want to call “good” beer these days) is winning. Slowly chipping away at the market share, slowly stealing Friday-night happy hours and paychecks from the maws of the adjuncted overlords.

And I think they are panicking. Their stranglehold is weakening; the more they tighten their beery grip, the more drinkers slip through their fingers. So they get desperate, and do stuff like this. They get a non-craft drinker to try something new – hey, it’s from their good old friend Miller, after all – with the (secret?) hopes that they’ll hate it.

And when they hate it, what does the drinker do? They form opinions about all craft beer. They tried the “craft beer thing” having downed a few bottles of Miller Fortune. All that “complex flavor” and “bourbon aging” isn’t for them. They don’t need a fancy glass; they still prefer to drink straight from the can or bottle.

Then they go out, buy another 30-rack of Miller Lite, and Miller wins.

Or so Miller hopes.

::puts on anti-radiation suit::

I have to go get the mail.

“We are always in a constant state of conspiracies, at least thats what they keep telling us…” ― Faith Brashear

5 Unretouched Beer Labels That Breweries Don’t Want You To See

Beer magazines always objectify our brews, display them in unrealistically ideal poses and glassware that are so disconnected from what’s “normal.” These images establish a ridiculous standard of beauty and make us feel bad about the askew labels, slightly rusty caps, and greasy fingerprint smudges of our own beer.

Well I say, “no more!” No more making otherwise happy, healthy beers feel bad about themselves. No more perpetuating an unattainable stereotype of what is “beautiful.” No more faked, Photoshop foolery like we see from Vogue and Disney.

With some clever sleuthing and some help from some insiders (who will remain unnamed for their own safety), I managed to get my hands on some of the raw versions of the images they plaster on the glossy fronts of magazines – before they’re manipulated and edited into unrecognizable fizzy facsimiles

Warning, what you’re about to see might shock you with truth lightning.

1. Goose Island Bourbon County Brand Stout

2. Southern Tier 422 Pale Wheat Ale

3. Stone Arrogant Bastard Ale Oaked

4. Avery IPA

5. Milwaukee’s Best Premium

Journey to the Center of the Beer

Every time I homebrew, I eat a bunch of the ingredients. I scoop big soggy spoonfuls of spent grains from the mashtun and scarf them down like a heaping helping of Frosted Flakes. I nibble on hop cones and pellets, immediately regretting the decision as my mouth is berated by bitter fury. I’ve even sampled the yeast, which I cannot in any way recommend.

All in the name of knowing my ingredients better. I’m still, to this day, amazed that four relatively basic foodstuffs can ultimately turn into something as complex and complete as beer. So today, I’m going to shrink myself down (using my macro lens). Aided by my friend, J. Cousteau (no, that’s too obvious…we’ll go with Jacques C. instead), we’ll journey deep into the heart of the beer, discovering the natural beauty hidden in what some people may regard as simple ingredients.

You ready to go Jacques?

Oui, d’accord. 

20,000 Leagues Under the Beer

We begin our journey as all who inevitably give into their wanderlust do, lost in fields of grain that blow sweet starchy scents across the nostrils of the soul. The endless plains of husks split and broken mimic Grecian ruins, bygones of a time lost to time, myth and legends seeping from their cracked remains. Every story ever told over a pint dwells in the history of this American 2 row. What do you see, Jacques?

Ze grain, she is beautiful and enigmatic, like a mermaid with a fish face and human legs. 

Um, yes. I guess. Well said.

But beer never stays in one state too long; dry becomes wet, sugar becomes alcohol, the beer itself ultimately graces our toilet bowls as blessed urine. Next we move into the sea of mashtun, that veritable Aegean trapped inside a red Igloo™ cooler.

The water swirls together with the simple sugars. Frothy bubbles rise as the near-scalding water sucks the starch from the grain with time honed practice and honored tradition. The mash paddle breaks up doughy balls, setting the saccharides to work.

Ah, ze mashtun, ver ze hopes and dreams of all ze sugars come together. Bath time for ze dirty soul of la bière.

Dirty bath time indeed.

As the grains are baptized by almost boiling, we explore the other ingredients. With Jacques help, I cast a net out across the beery world, hoping to ensnare the most lupulus of the humulus, to pull from the deep hop fields of Yakima Valley.

We find half a pound of pure paradise.

Ze hops, zey look like ze shit of a horse.

What? No. These are decadently aromatic Citra hops pressed into pellets. They burst with fragrance, singing a bitter song to balance out their grapefruit guise. They are the beating heart of the beer, arguably the most distinctive ingredients in the sweet concoction…

Regarde comme de la merde.

Moving on.

The grain is spent now, all its energy taken by the water, two separate spirits now joined as one in wort. It pulled its content and color from the medley of different malts, and after an hour long soak is ready for its long roil.

Ah yes, zis is when we sink deep into the liquid embrace. In ze wort we can return to ze womb, be one, again, with mother ocean. 

Now you’re just being creepy.

To float free in ze stomach of life is all man seeks. Ze bière, she washes over us like crashing waves. She is bottled ocean, twelve ounces of jeux de vie. 

I’m starting to regret bringing you along.

Sulfides soar skyward as the propane feeds an hour long boil. The beer is on the air, in the smells, in the wispy silks of evaporating wort forever disappear into winter’s chill. Some call it the angel’s share, some call it tragic but necessary loss for the cause. I call it the herald of the ale, the vanguard of a two-week war to be waged in white buckets and glass carboys.

Jacques? Oh crap, where did he go?

Nope, not sniffing the yeast. Not with the whirfloc tablets or Irish moss, either. Where can an old French dude wander off to in a beer?

Oh. There he is.

Ze airlock, she bubbles with ze zest of life. Like millions of fishes saying hello from ze ocean floor, ze bubbles show the world below ze surface. It is truly magnificent.

Yea, totally. I was just thinking that exact same thing. Thanks for the insights, I think.