On S.N.O.B.B.E.R.Y.

On being a Supporter of Native Oregon Beer and Being Exceptionally Rank and goatY:

I am an ol-factory, a synaptic, smelly mess. I've begun to detect anomalous odors amidst clouds of organic fumage. The scent of beer and raspberries mingles with capric acid and ammonia, causing much confusion in my sniffer. I've been smelling so much lately, I don't know where I stand, where to stand. My friend and fellow goatherd Alex gave it to me straight:

"People who judge beer... they're snobs."

I turned a sensory corner, began to learn the art of beer-collage, the synesthesia of aroma and adjective. Things described as "horse blanket" and "dimethyl sulfide" now have, by popular vote, an ascribed smell, and vice-versa. Caramel, chocolate, nut, grass, citrus, and flower are now things that come in the form of beer. I already knew it was a meal in a bottle, but this is ridiculous, right? And for all my eschewing of labels, I find myself taking on the label of "Snob" with a capital S that rhymes with Mess that stands for TROUBLE.

It could be worse, you know, and I am swearing to myself that I will use my new powers to educate, not criticize; to learn, not spurn; to brew well, but not balk if you hand me a Rolling Rock.