Saturday, October 25, 2014

Amy Hearts Beer

There are two things that I know I'm good at. One of them is not opening the first post on a brand new blog.  Actually I usually am good at that, but I've had some false starts as of late and I don't want this to be another one, so instead of starting off with a bang, I'm rambling on and on this way instead of cutting the shit and explaining what I'm doing.

I'm Amy.  I'm good at writing, for the most part. At the moment, I'm not so sure. The other thing I'm good at -and love- is beer.  Not in the way a frat kid loves a tube and funnel, but the way Elizabeth Taylor loved her husbands.  Passionately, individually, and one after the other. And then sometimes back to one I loved before.

So I'm here to combine my two loves into one ugly bastard offspring and blog about beer in my own particular uneducated, crass, less than refined way. (read: if drinking and/or cursing bother you, this is not your read, brah.)  I don't know how to do it properly, because I don't read anyone else's beer blogs.   But I'm sure I'll start, and I'm sure it will eventually affect the way I taste my beer, and the way I write about it.  That is, if I follow through with this new passionate project in the way I hope to.  I really hope I'm more than a one trick pony in this beloved venture.

I don't love beer for the booze- although it doesn't hurt- I love beer for the art. Yesssss, there's a little hipster inside me somewhere who swoons over the painstaking and heart rending processes of creating craft beer. The growing conditions of the hops, the locale of the ingredients, and all the ridiculous aspects of the actual brewing that I don't even know yet. There's an untapped world traveler inside me who is an absolute snob about imports.  And to be real? There's a broke-ass Happy Hour fiend in me that loves little more than the experience of sharing the company and conversation of people I like, fresh air, and a cold brew, even when all I can pony up for is a $2 pint of High Life.   I would say I don't shame anyone for their choice of beer, but that's only partially true. I don't judge the person, but I do judge the beer.   But I never forget what it's like to stop at the corner store after an exceptionally lousy day and grab that sixer for $6.49.   In my estimation, what matters about the beer is how you feel about it. And I love it with all the ardor of a thousand tween girls in the front row of a boy band concert. Yeah that footage of girls crying at the Beatles?  That's me with a flight in front of me. So in essence, that's what I want to capture here.  A layman's life of exploration and passion.  Adventuring and learning the process, clumsily, and with great enthusiasm.

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