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.