Wow. Has it been two months?

First, let me apologize. In no way did I intentionally ignore your beer review needs, patient reader. Between my recent relocation, my never-ending job search and my exceptionally task-oriented wife, I am quite the busy bee. Plus, I’m really lazy.

Portland is full of eccentrically stylish, moderately anorexic hipsters. They are all quite trendy in that “I’m not trendy, I’m anti-trendy!” kind of way. They all carry messenger bags and wear unusual hats. But that is not the real problem. The real problem is what they drink. This is Portland. Delicious beer is everywhere. Countless craft breweries are creating a broader selection of brews here than anywhere else in the world. In their anti-trendy trendiness, these hipsters are attempting that which should only be discussed in cities like Milwaukee and St. Louis. The well-oiled machine that is the Portland Hipster Movement is working diligently to return the classic American pint can to its rightful place on the podium of cool. Well, ‘return’ might not be best choice of words. I’m not sure that the pint can has ever been cool. But, history be damned, these hipsters are working nightly in their tight pants and large sunglasses to establish the pint can as the drink of choice.

In an attempt to understand these miscreants, I have conducted a blind taste test. Four of Portland’s most popular pint can offerings were laid out before me, marked only by the numbers one through four. They were, in order of original brewery establishment date: Pabst Blue Ribbon (1844), Miller High Life (1855), Hamm’s (1865) and Olympia (1896). All are now produced by Miller Brewing Company in Milwaukee, though originally Olympia was brewed in eastern Washington and Hamm’s near St. Paul, Minnesota. But enough with the genealogy. On to the beer.

Note: I attempted to purchase one pint can of each of these lagers at my local convenience store. The Vietnamese woman who owns the place insisted that I purchase the 24 ounce versions rather than the pint cans. I explained to her that I was conducting a complicated scientific experiment and that I must maintain the strictest control over the variables. I think she replied with something about the 24 ounce cans being cheaper than the pint cans. Obviously the hipsters had already gotten to her. In the interest of international diplomacy, I agreed to go with the 24 ounce cans rather than my planned pints.

Here are my original, unedited tasting notes.

One: Bland. But exceptionally so. Tastes kinda like beer, but not so much. This taste test is going to suck.

Two: More bland than One. Not so exceptional. A little watery. Possibly a good choice if you are looking to rehydrate between real beers. Most pungent of the four choices. Maybe the glass was dirty? Definitely my least favorite. I think you could put this beer through your Britta filter and it would taste almost the same.

Three: Tastes like Two, but with a touch of One in the finish. Head dissipated more quickly than the others. Maybe a good choice when being jostled about, perhaps while sleeping in an empty freight car on a cross country train trip with your hobo friend Delicious Pete. Corn? Do I taste corn? That can’t be good.

Four: A bit more flavor than the others. Automatically jumps to the head of the pack. Smells a bit like air. Perhaps it is completely sterile and inert? Might be good to pour over an open wound if you run out of Neosporin. Has a smoother, more natural flavor than the others. Better than Three, but less of that straight from Nebraska corn taste.

Post taste test identifications, observations and results.

One: Miller High Life – Damn. I was really pulling for the champagne of beers to make a good run at the title today. The High Life is one of my old standbys. I find the tall, clear, shoulderless bottles quite elegant in a retired high school golf coach kind of way. I’m not really sure what that means. Final result: Third Place

Two: Olympia – Wow. This swill could battle Coors Light and Keystone for the “Wateriest Beer in the World” award. Considering I prefer the hoppiest, maltiest, strongest beers available, you can guess where this one ranks. The Olympia can boasts the slogan “It’s the Water”. The can speaks the truth. Final result: Fourth Place

Three: Pabst Blue Ribbon – A solid showing for the oldest beer of the bunch. PBR displays a decent balance between cheap beer taste and perceived (likely incorrectly) rehydrating capability. From kayaking to lawn darts, PBR is the Gatorade of drunken recreating. I shall now bestow upon this classic American beer its highest honor since it won ‘America’s Best Beer of 1893’. Final result: Second Place
Note: I spilled the remainder of the PBR after refilling my glass for the second time. My wife blamed it on intoxication, but I stand by my claim that the ungainly, oversize can is the real culprit.

Four: Hamm’s – This was a bit of a surprise. My only real experience with Hamm’s involves two dollar pint cans at the Laurelthirst pub. Usually after three or four pints of oatmeal stout have sucked everything but the lint from the pockets of my favorite beer drinking pants. Let me say Hamm’s is one of the few beers that I remember from my childhood. Not because I knocked back sixers of these babies with my pre-teen friends while watching Lee Majors destroy cars and get girls as ‘The Fall Guy’. Nope. This humble beer taster’s mother would have none of that. I remember this beer because of the angelic jingle that accompanied Hamm’s TV spots. “Hamm’s the beer refreshing. Hamm’s the beer refreshing. Haaaammmmmm’s.” Good stuff. Final result: First Place

So there you have it. Hamm’s is the finest cheap beer in my refrigerator. But that does not mean that others can’t challenge the current king of the pint cans. I plan on picking up a pint can of Ranier in the next few days. And if you or your loved ones have a pint can favorite that you would like me to test, please send them my way. If you don’t know my address, ask the person sitting next to you. I am especially interested in how those grand Midwestern brews like Schiltz and Stroh’s would stand up to Hamm’s. So next time you find yourself at the Seven-Eleven buying beef jerky at two in the morning, think of me and pick up a cheap pint can. Make sure you get the brown paper sleeve that most discerning convenience store operators offer. I think you can just slip the beer inside, fold down the top, slap on a few stamps and the magical USPS will take care of the rest.

Initial music pairing – Peter Bjorn and John – Writer’s Block

I started my taste test with this album because it was upbeat and, damn it, I was excited. You may have heard the third track – Young Folks – but this album is full of other great, poppy songs. Sadly, this taste test was not full of great anything.

Revised music pairing – The Handsome Family – Last Days of Wonder

When things go bad, you need a soundtrack that can keep up with your despair. This album is perfectly slow, dark and depressing. “When automatic sinks in airports no longer see your hands”. Wow. That is one sad lyrical image. Listen to track four – After We Shot the Grizzly -before you begin your own taste test. Even a crappy beer taste test will seem like a vacation after that song.

Go Forth and Post Your Fourth Post

Hello Excessively Bored Reader. While contemplating my still fruitless quest to break into the writing business, I decided it may be time to enlist some much needed assistance. After considering my abundant options – some educational, some vocational, and some criminal – I settled on the only sure-fire, foolproof method. I was off to the local bookseller to purchase a ‘How to Become a Writer’ book. After all, who could possibly be more equipped to direct my career decisions than a writer that makes his or her living writing about how to be a writer?

Somewhere between the real estate test guides and the foreign service exam booklets, I struck career guidance gold. I based this initial reaction on the flashy cover and the obviously qualified author. The guy was a freakin’ college professor, for god’s sake. Granted, he had, at the time of the last printing, only taught online courses for the University of Phoenix. But who’s to say that he has not recently accepted a full professorship at Harvard? I understand they have an up and coming television repair program.

All kidding aside, those books are crap. After flipping through a few of the standard ‘How To’ offerings, I decided to go with plan B. Off to the magazine rack! With periodicals boasting such erudite titles as ‘Paris Review’ and ‘Romantic Times’, how could I go wrong? I finally decided on the latest issue of ‘Writers Digest’. Judging by the cover, the latest issue was likely published in 1982. Ancient cover art aside, this particular issue did offer tips on “How to get published today!” and “Twenty hot markets for your work!”. Sadly, nothing about limiting the use of exclamation points. Maybe next month.

So now comes the hard part – the embarrassment associated with purchasing a writing magazine. ‘Writers Digest’ may not hold the same social stigma as ‘Juggs’, but the shame I feel is just as real. If I worked the Barnes & Noble counter and some sad soul tried to purchase this magazine from me, I would feel obliged to say “It won’t work. You should buy something that you might actually read.” As I approach the counter, I feel like the fat guy buying a copy of ‘Men’s Health’. I’m not fooling anybody.

Speaking of fooling people, this episode’s beer review involves a massive web of lies and deceit. I am still jobless. With joblessness comes pennilessness. With pennilessness comes insults from grammarians and cheap beer. My wife suggested I review the venerable American institution that is Pabst Blue Ribbon. “What’ll ya have?!” and all of that. I agreed in principle to her suggestion. Then I stole a twenty out of her purse. Now I have money for three more beer reviews.

Censored Ale – Lagunitas Brewing Company, Petaluma, California

Originally named The Kronik, this amber ale is big and malty without being too sweet. The hop character is much more pronounced in the nose than on the palette. This is one of those strange brews that can’t seem to figure out where it belongs. Imagine a malty red ale getting drunk and hitting on the local hoppy pale ale. Maybe he is suave, or maybe she is easy, but either way we end up with a beer like Censored Ale. Not as mellow and malty as your average red ale and not as bitter and hoppy as your average IPA, Censored Ale offers a pleasantly middle-of-the-road alternative to both of these varietals. Even if you are not won over by this review, buy a 22 ounce bottle of anything Lagunitas brews, read whatever is printed on the label and enjoy a deep, primordial belly laugh. Not only do these guys know how to brew a solid beer, but they are almost equally adept in beer-related story telling.

Initial music pairing – Jolie Holland – Escondida

From the first song – Sascha – to the last – Faded Coat of Blue – this is one of those perfect summer albums. Ms. Holland rekindles the old-timey sound reminiscent of your grade school social studies teacher’s childhood. You know the stories. Back when times were tough and music was pure and simple. Twenty inch spinner rims and big bootied hoes were few and far between. All you had were sublime songs about death and morphine. I’m allergic to morphine. Probably allergic to death as well. Nonetheless, this is a beautiful, sultry-slow album that deserves a quiet hour on the front porch. Censored Ale mixes perfectly with the Ms. Holland’s dreamy vocals. The third track, Old Fashioned Morphine, is a wonderful example of how the triplet structure of traditional blues lyrics can be adopted by modern music. Goodbye California makes me want to kiss the next toothless hick farmgirl I run into. No revised pairing necessary here. This is an excellent match.

Career update: When I got home with my new writing magazine, I realized none of the articles about how to get your work published would be of any use to me. I don’t have any ‘work’ to have published. Perhaps I can hire a ghostwriter to put something together for me. When those pieces are rejected, I could even hire a ghostreader to be disappointed by the rejection letters. I could just hang out in the park all day.

Third Post (this is a lame title)

Hello again Surprisingly Loyal Reader. This is my third post, and as we are getting to know each other more and more intimately, I believe we should take our relationship to the next level. No you say? You are waiting for a better looking, more intelligent blogger? Very well. But know this, Apprehensive Reader. I will not be deterred. Restraining orders be damned.

I would like to take this opportunity to tell you a little more about myself. One year ago I decided I could be a writer. Then I took a job operating a lawn mower. The beauty of this career move is that I could sit on my mower all day and think of nothing but what it must be like to be a writer. The lingering hint of pipe smoke wafting from the lapel of my tweed writing jacket. The machine-gun rhythm of the next great American novel being beaten out of a sixty-year old cast iron typewriter. The smoky flavors of a rare Scotch as I celebrated the completion of another masterpiece. At this point I would often mow over something unpleasant, thereby stench-slapping myself out of my Hemingwayesque fantasies.

Why did I decide I could be a writer? For the same reason that we all decide we can do something – misplaced, irrational hubris. Every time I read something that was poorly written, I would think to myself “How in the hell did this hack get published? I could write ten times better than this!” In fact, if there were more than three people reading this blog right now, many of them would probably be thinking the same thing. But this is the competitive human spirit at its best.

Think of how many high teenage boys were inspired by Beavis and Butthead. Experiencing the delightfully juvenile and crudely drawn commentary on the popular music videos of the day must have been an almost religious experience for these kids. The smart ones would soon realize that they were too lazy and too short on talent to pull off a similar coup-de-slacker. The dumb ones probably chased the dream all the way to dropping out of art school and embarking on a career as a street puppeteer. But somewhere between that last throat-burning bong hit and the cellophane symphony of a Twinkie striptease, the dream still lives. I ask only one thing of you, Generous Reader. Crush my dreams gently.

On to the beer.

Inversion IPA – Deschutes Brewery, Bend, Oregon

IPA stands for India Pale Ale. IPA was the beer traditionally consumed by the lowest caste of Bombayite (now known as a Mumbaikar) street dwellers – the pasty Western Indian Albino. And so the name was born. An ale specially brewed for the palest of Indians.

At this point, I should probably apologize. To all Indians, pale and not-so-pale, I am sorry. The real origin of IPA involves the high alcohol and high hop content of early eighteenth century British ales bound for the Empire’s Crown Jewel. High alcohol, heavily hopped beer survived the six month (twelve fortnights) trip while lesser ales often arrived undrinkable.

As you may have already discerned, high alcohol + high hops = happy Jason. I am a big fan of IPAs, and this one does not disappoint. Inversion offers the floral nose that often accompanies a yeastier, fruitier IPA. But the first sip reveals the real character of this beer: hops, hops, and more hops. If I were going to introduce a rating scale (which I am not) it would likely run from zero to seven and one quarter (which it does not) and this beer would rate a solid six and five eighths (which seems about right).

Initial music pairing – Neutral Milk Hotel – In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

Jeff Magnum is a freakin’ genius. This is easily one of my favorite albums of all time and you owe it to yourself to give this album a listen. But it may not be the right album for this beer. I listen to this album often, and, as we covered in one of my earlier posts, I drink beer often. Those two oftens often intersect. I am sure I have consumed a number of IPAs while listening to this album, but when I really sit down and think about what music would best accompany this particular brew, I invariably find my mind wandering into the familiar, raspy-voiced universe of the man himself.

Revised music pairing – Tom Waits – Rain Dogs

Those that know me well know Tom Waits well. They don’t always like Mr. Waits, and occasionally they suggest that I should not celebrate his catalog so frequently. These are the same people that said I could not drink fifty beers in one day and that I should not major in Philosophy. As wise as their advice may seem in hindsight, I have yet to really listen. I see no need to start now. Drink four Inversion IPAs and then listen to the twelfth track 9th and Hennepin. “All the donuts have names that sound like prostitutes.” Pure poetry.

I can add titles?

Hello Patient Reader. Yes, it has been longer than I expected since my last post. But I have spent the last few days constructing a fool-proof scheduling model. Updates to this blog will be posted a few times a week, unless I am bored or busy, in which case they may be more or less frequent, relatively speaking, based upon the timeline suggested at the beginning of this excessively long sentence. Well then, right into the beer.

Old Foghorn Barleywine Style Ale – Anchor Brewing Company, San Francisco, California

Old Foghorn Barleywine Style Ale. That is a mouthful. As is the beer behind the label. Bigger and stronger than your average Mexican wrestler, Old Foghorn is probably the oldest barleywine style ale produced in the United States. I say ‘probably’ for two reasons: 1) Anchor Brewing Company, an instrumental player in the revival of craft brewing in the United States, has been brewing Old Foghorn since the mid 70’s, and 2) I am too lazy to actually look it up.

My first sip impression is “Damn. This is almost too sweet.” But the second sip is better. The third better yet. This pattern continues unabated, so to avoid stumbling out of your house and insulting the neighbors in your underwear, please drink with a friend. Many Western barleywine style ales are hopped pretty heavily. The bitterness of the hops can help balance out the sweetness that results from the use of copious amounts of malt. Not so with Old Foghorn. The thick, malty sweetness is front and center from the second the first sip hits your lips. Initially I found myself wishing for a more pronounced hop character. But with each sip I found a growing appreciation for Old Foghorn’s subtle (by barleywine standards) hop notes.

As you have probably already deduced, I am not a beer expert. I am, however, a beer drinking expert. My expertise leads me to believe that this beer would age well if stored in a cool, dry place for one year. The sweetness would likely mellow a bit and the result would be a bottle of balanced, malty deliciousness. However, my expertise also leads me to believe that the first time I open the fridge and find nothing but rancid milk and PBR, any bottle of ‘aging’ beer would soon be a bottle of ‘drinking’ beer. Not only am I lazy, I’m also impatient.

Initial music pairing – Iron and Wine – Our Endless Numbered Days

Wispy, mellow and sad, one would think this album might not stand up to a beer as powerful as Old Foghorn. But fear not, Dubious Reader, this is not such a bad pairing. Old Foghorn deserves to be sipped, preferably while wearing a tweed smoking jacket and sitting in front of a raging fire. One must drink this beer slowly. A bottle of Old Foghorn needs to be experienced at every temperature between just out of the fridge cold to damn near too warm to drink. And an album like Our Endless Numbered Days offers an appropriately slow, sultry soundtrack. But, as my wife would say, I’m never right the first time.

Revised music pairing – John Coltrane – A Love Supreme

Old Foghorn needs a little more soul than Our Endless Numbered Days can provide. The slow pace and gentle melodies are great, but this is barleywine for Christ’s sake! So as we raise our glasses in honor of Anchor Brewing Company’s imagination and innovation, we shall do so with the rich accompaniment of the equally imaginative and innovative sounds of Mr. Coltrane’s saxophone. Somewhere amidst the third and fourth parts of A Love Supreme, there is an extended bass solo. Do not miss it.

Speaking of love and loneliness (this is a piss-poor segue)…

I once had a pretentious girlfriend. An undergraduate student majoring in some obscure sociological discipline, she fancied herself a member of academia. Her primary sociological focus involved the excessively low social expectations of modern Americans.

One beautiful spring Saturday morning, she decided I would accompany her on a sociological expedition. We were headed to the Oregon coast to observe people observing whales. People often park along the shoulders of US Highway 101 to stand in the rain while looking at the ocean through binoculars. All this just to catch a fleeting glimpse of a whale’s ass. My pretentious girlfriend liked to witness this rare moment of discovery.

This intrepid expedition leader would often wonder aloud, as pretentious academics are prone to do, as to what this little microcosm of American society could teach us about Americans as a whole. Are we so disconnected from the places we live and the people that live around us that we must drive hundreds of miles and spend hours on end searching the vast ocean for a brief glimpse of another solitary being adrift in vacuous loneliness? If whales could walk, would we find them peering into the dirty windows of lonely, internet-porn addicted shut-ins? She often voiced her doubts that humans are really the most intelligent species.

I hated that girl.

Hello Curious Reader. This is my first blog post. Ever.

Words & Beer, as the name conveniently implies, will include both words and beer. Well, not actual beer. But Words & Words About Beer doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.

My general goal with this blog is to share some of my thoughts about beer. With every new post I hope to provide a comprehensively vague review of a different beer. This should not be a problem, as I drink a fair amount of beer. Like a county fair amount of beer! Wow. Mark that down as the first pathetic excuse for a joke on this blog. At least they can only get better from here on out.

New posts will often include a few non-beer-related words as well. I am embarking on a likely unsuccessful career as a writer, so I will include everything from short stories about breakfast meats to naïve political diatribes. Along the way, please remember that I don’t take myself seriously. Neither should you.

I am new to this blogging thing, so I may rely on you, Curious Reader, for advice on blogging etiquette and style. For instance, when I do include a bit of non-beer content, should I lead with the beer review and hope that you are so captivated by my command of the English language that you have no choice but to read on? Or should I take the M. Night Shyamalan approach and put all the crap out there first in order to finish strong? I think, as this is my first post, it would be best to keep things simple. Just beer on this one. Here goes.

Session Lager – Full Sail Brewing Company, Hood River, Oregon

For two years now this has been my ‘I just mowed the lawn and I smell like a Yeti’ summer beer of choice. Exceptionally refreshing and enjoyable even when ice cold, Session provides a nice break from the standard high-malt, high-hops and high-alcohol beers typically offered by Oregon craft brewers. Don’t get me wrong, I love damn near all of those high-malt, high-hops and high-alcohol beers. But this light, straw-colored brew just begs for five or six hours of sweaty, sun-baked back-porch-BBQ time. I used more hyphens in this paragraph than in everything else I have previously written.

Not only is this beer BBQ and hyphen friendly, but my wife loves it as well. I like to involve my wife in my drinking, as this counts as ‘Family Time’ and can sometimes get me out of those joyous trips to the bead store. I hate beads.

My aforementioned wife is German and she is convinced that Session is as close to a true German Helles as any American brewer could possibly get. I am a bit dubious, as I have yet to taste every American brewer’s attempt at a German Helles, but, alas, she is persuasive. I will agree. Session has the light color and full-bodied flavor indicative of Bavarian Helles, but unfortunately it comes in a much smaller package. Eleven ounces per bottle, to be exact. But don’t let that missing ounce deter you, Curious Reader. I am planning a grassroots reimbursement campaign that involves thousands of Seven-Eleven receipts and individually wrapped, Federal Expressed bottles of this delicious nectar. One way or another, we will get our twelfth ounce.


Initial music pairing – The Wood Brothers – Ways Not to Lose

This isn’t really fair. I knew the first time that I heard this album that it would go great with my favorite summer beer. It does. Buy some Session, buy this album and be happy. If you can’t get your hands on a twelver of these little babies, buy the album and drink something else. You will only be half as miserable as the poor bastard with a six-pack of Hamm’s and an AM radio.