Ahhhhhhh, beer.  The working man’s blue-collar drink.  Since the dawn of civilization, skilled craftsmen have performed their magical alchemy and carefully brewed hops and barley, producing a golden elixir that has been celebrated and enjoyed for centuries. Throughout history, any town worth its salt has had a brewery.  It was as common as a church, town hall, or marketplace.

With the industrial age came homogenization and standardization.  Local brewers were bought out or run out of business by large national and international breweries.  They all had some ad gimmick, like say – a team of large horses or celebrities arguing over “great taste vs. less filling”.  You know what I mean.  Beer became uninspired.  Watered down.  Generic.

Then, in the 1990’s, Generation Xers (and their subsequent offspring) “rediscovered” the art of brewing.  It started as hobby kits, where enthusiasts created homebrew in their basements and garages.  More committed individuals started bottling their creations in larger and larger quantities.  Kegs of homemade beer started showing up at backyard barbeques and in home kegerators.  A “lost art” was rediscovered.

New breweries started popping up.  First in large cities, then as the years passed, in smaller towns.  These days, you can’t swing a dead cat and not hit some locally owned brewery (or cidery – or distillery – but those are other topics).  Hell, my local county seat (a town of 40,000) now has seven of them – with more on the way.

Like the evolution of spaghetti sauces and mustards (with their endless varieties), consumers are paralyzed by choice.  Instead of three beer choices, now there are fifty.  IPAs, amber ales, brown ales, hefeweizens, porters, stouts – you name it and someone makes it.  You like hops?  How about a double IPA?  Maybe a triple?  Want high alcohol content?  Unlike the big national brands (which run anywhere between 4% and 4.5% alcohol), you can now buy local creations that run in the double digits.  One six-ounce pour can throw a consumer over the legal limit. 

Everything now has some cutesy name.  “Armageddon Ale”, “Dr. Calabash’s Enlightened Elixir”, “Hoppy Birthday, Baby”, “Bitches and Cream”, or “Sweet Baby Jesus Peanut Butter Ale” (that last one is an actual product).  Do you like fruit flavors?  There’s a beer for that.  Like a sour taste?  Yup, got it covered.  Coffee infused?  Yes.  Aged in a wine or bourbon barrel?  Check.  If it can be thrown in the fermentation kettle, odds are someone has tried it.

Then there is the cost.  Forget your 30-pack of cans for $19.98.  All of this creativity comes at a premium price point.  Bring your wallet or pull out the plastic, because one pint of some of these creations will run you more than the cost of a national brand 6-pack.  Ouch. 

Our beloved brew has been gentrified.  Taken over by bearded and tattoo-covered 20-somethings with deep pockets and picky palates.  Don’t get me wrong, I applaud the creativity and experimentation, but I just can’t keep up anymore. Sure, if I’m out and about, I’ll be happy to try something new and different, but when I’m done mowing my grass or weeding the garden on a hot Saturday afternoon, I’ll stick with the simple pleasure of popping the top off of a bottle of ice-cold Yuengling (hurray for Pottsville, PA!) and call it a day.