5.1% ABV bottled
“Why don’t you just go drink some more of your…sugary poison!”
She slung a throw pillow at my head, perhaps taking the name a little too literally, and stormed into her bedroom.
Sugary poison? How dare she besmirch my precious beer like that? What a low blow.
She wasn’t mad at my love of beer because I was an alcoholic or anything, no, she’d have had no problem if I was just a passive and aloof macro-swilling drunkard; she was pissed at me simply because I had a passion for beer.
Why does it seem that so many women hate it when a man has passions? I’ve had fights started with me for being a foodie, a sports superfan, a cinephile, a cigar enthusiast, a golf nut, a book worm, a TV devotee, and, of course, a beer geek. Why is it that hobbies, passions, arouse so much anger in women?
I’ll tell you why–and this won’t be that popular of sentiment, and might even be considered misogynistic:
Because women have none themselves.
I’m not saying that’s a good or a bad thing, I’m just making an observation. Sporting events, nerdy collecting conventions, beer tastings, vintage record shops, golf courses, tiny art cinemas…they are always jam packed with men, and the sparse women in attendance were usually dragged there by their freak of a boyfriend or husband.
It seems women want to have passions like us men do–why else would they get so angry at ours?–but they just can’t manufacture any interest in the frivolous. Nick Hornby brilliantly understood this in his great paean to sports fandom “Fever Pitch” and his even better paean to music love “High Fidelity.” Women are just seemingly more interested in the important stuff in life: careers, family, relationships, “John & Kate Plus Eight.” And that’s fine, but that’s also kinda boring.
So drink my sugar poison…why yes, yes I will. In fact, “sugary poison” has now been co-opted as my preferred thing to call beer. I love when some girl I won’t ever deal with for the rest of time presents me with a catch phrase that I can now use for the rest of time. Even if it is a bit of a misnomer, being that Googleable study after Googleable study has found that the nectar of the Gods can reduce risk of stroke, heart and vascular disease, dementia, and that it even hydrates better than water. No wonder some monks literally live off the stuff.
Health benefits or not, I prefer my sugary poison to be incredibly tasty so at least I can wreck myself gloriously. Having said that, with all the great beers I’ve been drinking and A pluses I’ve been awarding lately, you begin to lose sight of what differentiates the great from the good from the bad.
No problem. Every few months I need to reset my perceptions, and I do that by drinking a new beer from my least favorite brewery, the brewery I fully expect to sue me one day, the brewery whose negative Vice Blog reviews always manages to drum a bunch of Great Lakes area people out of the woodwork to flood my comments area calling me such poetic names as “douche nozzle”: yes, I’m talking about the Jacob Leinenkugel Brewing Company.
I use dreadful Leinies to calibrate my drinking. How else would I know what’s great if not knowing what’s meager?
Not unexpectedly, and thankfully for this experiment, the 1888 Bock is just plain gross and unpleasant. No malt character, no taste, very watery, bordering on undrinkable. Tastes absolutely nothing like a bock. A waste of twelve ounces of sugary poison. At least now I know that what I have been drinking recently is truly great. Thank you, yet again Jake Leinenkugel!
Now I just need to find a girl who will passionately drink my sugary poison alongside me. Until then, I’ll just be wondering why women aren’t as frivolous as us men. Thoughts?