So, I’m back. I guess. It’s been a little over a year since I last
blogged wrote in this space. It was a mix of busy-ness (have we really not invented a better word?), apathy, laziness, and burn-out. Not burn-out as it pertains to writing. I’ve been writing more often than ever… I’m just the only one who reads it. No, what I really got burned out on was the internet. The constant barrage of dopamine and adrenaline, and angst, and anger, and faux-outrage and… Jesus, everything. I stopped wanting to contribute to my corner of it. Like, if you’re the only gardener in your neighborhood… who gives a shit? Their curb-appeal is so bad the fucking Taj Mahal couldn’t sell above Zestimate.
Where was I? Oh yeah, beer. I love beer. That’s why I’m here today, both in terms of why I’m writing this and *how* I’m writing this. I felt myself trying to become an “influencer” before I knew such a (stupid) thing existed. That was this lingering fallacy from my twenties that essentially said “if strangers don’t know you, it doesn’t matter.” That’s actually a more glib take on it. It was probably rationalized more as: “If you’re any good at all, people will know who you are.”
It’s a putrid, toxic mindset born out of Boomer self-interest as manifest in their need to produce (or give the illusion of producing – their specialty) perfect offspring. There’s a lot of side-eye at Millennial vanity without sufficient nasal-gazing, and… oh right, beer. I love beer. The point is, what I thought I was doing (sharing my love of beer and homebrewing with like-minded or open-minded people) was overwhelmed by what I was actually doing (inflicting my opinions on the vacuousness of cyberspace) and that in-congruence with who I am (self-loathing) caused me to stop writing
(blogging). But I’m back now, kinda, on my bullshit.
I wrote something when I was about 18 to the effect of: “I think of what I thought I knew at 6, and what I thought I knew at 16, and wonder at what I’ll know when I’m 26.” That’s the kind of self-flagellating that only a white, male teenager (or Republican) can achieve. Having blown past the age of 26 in a bewildered stupor, I can say two things: 1. that kid was an asshole and 2. that kid was right. Now closer to 36 than 26, I look at that ever-narrowing gap of self-reflection and think about what I could’ve done better. After all, vanity might have been a part of starting this blog but it wasn’t all of it. Maybe this all just became less important when I found “my people,” my homebrew club. My group of similarly-interested peers that obliterated the need to scream, mindlessly, into the void. Maybe. Eh, probably.
I became president of that homebrew club via the usual methods: shameless self-promotion, corruption, and laziness/negligence. And the time that would’ve been spent building a “brand” and a “social media presence” was instead wasted on raising over $13,000 for charity; legally incorporating a club; winning over 50 drinking games in one day; and, oh wait one of those doesn’t belong.
Where’s all this rambling going? I don’t know. Probably nowhere, but I’m less concerned about the direction*. I’m here to talk about beer; specifically, my beer. Therefore, I removed all the old posts. I removed the reviews, the opinions, the self-indulgent diatribes. Frankly I was sick of getting emails every time a primordial incel looked up “bad things to say about Sam Adams” on Google and found my blog (because they always leave a comment). But I wasn’t sick of writing. I gotta couple notebooks filled up since we last talked. Maybe, I’ll read you something from them. But first, we should talk about beer. After all…
… I love beer.
* I did not say “it’s the journey, not the destination” like some idiot who has never been in a car with their family (or friends) for over three hours. You can legally kill anyone you’ve been in a car with for over 5 hours. I’m serious, it’s THE law.