Sixteen blocks until good beer, can I make it?

Sixteen blocks to go and I know good beer will be found. Anticipation builds, one block stacked on top of another, a not so cool breeze scorching my skin. Today, I've dressed appropriately, my beer drinking, Wilson branded t-shirt and polyester blend/bicycle riding/perfect for eating tapioca pudding slacks loosely cling to my skin, two ideal wardrobe comforts for washing down a tulip glass full of Ommegang Hennepin. Ah, what a great beer, dry, refreshing, earthy, fruity. But, I'm not quite there yet.

Fourteen more blocks. If only I had a bicycle right now. But then again, maybe walking is safer. You know, with all those tailgates and bumpers just waiting to jump out at you and break your clavicle. Yeah, walking's good. Patience. The beer will come.

Walking, one foot in front of the other, slowly. Twelve blocks. It's like waiting in line for fifteen minutes to go to the bathroom, you're there, the toilet's so close, your body knows it and just wants the release, but no, your still waiting.

Ten blocks to go. I think I'm in the range, is that hops in the air.? Have little particles of resin lifted out of someones glass and reached out to me from ten blocks away. Am I delusional. Has the beer deprivation started to kick in. No. It can's be. Wait a second, is that a giant, human sized piece of barley following me in a Volkswagen Bug.

Okay, Bob. Stop this. You only have eight blocks to go. You'll get your good beer. What's it going to be? Hoppy and refreshing IPA. Thick and Chewy Stout. Maybe, a Belgian. Yeah, a Belgian, oh yes, the Ommegang Hennepin, I almost forgot. Effervescent, quick bubbles jumping off my tongue, bringing subtle sensations of tropical fruit and apples. Ahh, a happy palate not far off. The anticipation adds to the excitement. Six blocks and I'll be there...

Remember the good ol' days of just drinkin' and enjoy'.

Chronically awake in the coastal pocket of progressives, outdoors men, and transients, my university days spent in Bellingham, WA ruined me for the joys of reading. My English degree aspirations had me dissecting, criticizing, and reviewing every word my eyes skimmed across. My professors stripped me of that thoughtless joy of just reading for the fun of it. Instead, it was analyze, analyze, analyze.

Three years later, here in the belly of Los Angeles, I find myself coming back to this same dilemma. Only my subject has shifted to the joy of drinking beer. Every cap peeled off, cork popped, or draft poured has me doing a sensory analysis. The hops are out of balance. Too much residual sugar. Oxidation. Malt is too harsh. I can't help but be critical.

Even though these observations are vital to becoming a great brewer, I feel the purest joy is often found in just soaking in the experience. No profound assessment. No recommended improvements. No criticism. Just the pleasure of good beer.

You don't need any previous knowledge, special vocabulary, or suggestive add campaigns, just the realization that what's sliding down your throat makes you happy.

Sure a little guidance to a good beer choice or the company of family and friends helps in pointing you in the right direction, but what I'm getting at is that you don't need to be a beer expert or hold any pretentions, you only need the sensation that what your doing brings you joy.