While Ron and Al take a little break, please enjoy this guest post from Bill at Beer Janglin’.

Things were so much simpler when I was younger.

There was a point in my life at which there was but one solitary bit of criteria I had in order to make the perfect beer selection: price tag. Back then I could walk into any grocery store, or even a cruddy convenience store, and promptly choose a case of beer that would be approved by all my beer-swilling colleagues. I simply had to take a quick inventory of all the beers that the establishment had to offer, find that beer with the lowest unit price, and make my selection. None of my buddies would tsk-tsk me for taking something low-end, nor would anyone else bring a six-pack of their own because they wanted something quote-unquote “good.” It was quite an easy process. In fact, the hardest part was trying to find an adult who would go back into the store and buy it for you in exchange for cigarette money.

That was back when all beer tasted the same. [Note: most beers you will find an a grocery or convenience store DO still taste the same.] Beer was beer. If someone asked me to get Miller Lite and I came back with Coors Light, they wouldn’t send me back out the door to fix my grievous error. Beer was beer. Any of it would get us inebriated — which was, naturally, of paramount importance — and it didn’t make a lick of sense to pay more a cent more than we had to for the privilege of feeling light-headed and obtaining a temporary speech impediment.

But that was then, and I’m not 8 years old anymore.

Now, a so-called quick trip to the beer store takes no less than 45 minutes. In the amount of time it takes me to commit to a microbrew 12 pack, or — God forbid! — a mixed six-pack for those few wonderful stores that stock them, I could have already been at my destination with the hiccups and a lampshade teetering atop my drunken head. In one trip to the beer store, I will see at least a half-dozen people waltz in the door, grab a 30-pack of Busch and leave, on their merry way to a cheap night of drinking safe, bland beer. I, on the other hand, am taking chance after chance with all sorts of beers with funny names and crazy labels. And paying more for it. For a moment, I am slightly jealous of the Busch drinker, so happy and sure, so expedient with the completion of his purchase. Then I realize he’ll be drinking Busch all night and I won’t.

It was an odd, gradual process to go from beer philistine to beer geek. I don’t know when the change took place exactly, but I started to actually understand the differences between a pale ale and an India Pale Ale, or between a lager and a pilsner. (I still can’t tell a stout from a porter for the life of me, but that’s another story.) At the early phase of my newfound passion for beer, I did play the part of the snob. When someone would be drinking Miller Lite, and I was enjoying a craft-brewed six pack from Middle Ages or Stone, I would often make smarmy comments about the contents of the Miller Lite drinker’s glass. The words “swill” and “pisswater” and “fizzy pisswater swill” were often bandied about.

But had I become that which I despised? Had I become some sort if elitist? Was I abandoning my blue-collar Genny Cream Ale roots? I went through an internal struggle. I felt as if I was someone who was looking down on those who succumbed to the mass-marketing of macros, as if there was something genetically inferior about their taste-buds. Or perhaps even their character! Should I perhaps embrace the lowbrow end of the spectrum, like Joel McCrea in “Sullivan’s Travels”? Should I shed the stuffed-shirt and go back to homogeneous 30-packs of the Silver Bullet?

And I have come to my answer: A resounding “no.”

Just as I can’t go back to playing in the sandboxes and jungle-gyms of my youth, I can’t go back to macro-lagers. Every once in a while, I will partake, if one is offered to me at a party, or if I am in a restaurant which has a limited selection. But for my own personal use, craft brews are the kinds of beer I want to explore. It’s not about being a snob; it’s about growing up. It’s the same reason we go from watching Stallone and Schwartzenegger action movies to foreign and indie films. It’s why I traded in Aerosmith for Aesop Rock. In college I could have eaten at McDonalds 14-18 times a week, but now I enjoy a large dinner at a nice restaurant. And sure, it costs more than the 99 cent Big Mac, but isn’t it worth it?

I have come to a peaceful place regarding my so-called “snobbery” — which I prefer to call “enthusiasm” for great beer — in that I will not belittle or criticize one’s choice of alcoholic beverage, but rather helpfully suggest an alternative, or offer a sip of what I’m drinking. It may spark an interest, and it may not. That’s not for me to decide. But at the same time, I will make no apologies for my own high standard of beer drinking. After all, I’m the one who has to drink it.

Oh, and even though it’s fancy beer, it can still get me drunk.

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