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.
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.
