This post is more for me than you. But the whole blog is really... isn't it? First, consider this:
For every man HAS his hobby. One man's may be sporting dogs; another man's may be that of believing himself to be a lover of music, and able to sound the art to its inmost depths; another's may be that of posing as a connoisseur of recherche cookery; another's may be that of aspiring to play roles of a kind higher than nature has assigned him; another's (though this is a more limited ambition) may be that of getting drunk, and of dreaming that he is edifying both his friends, his acquaintances, and people with whom he has no connection at all by walking arm-in-arm with an Imperial aide-de-camp; another's may be that of possessing a hand able to chip corners off aces and deuces of diamonds; another's may be that of yearning to set things straight—in other words, to approximate his personality to that of a stationmaster or a director of posts. In short, almost every man has his hobby or his leaning; yet Manilov had none such, for at home he spoke little, and spent the greater part of his time in meditation—though God only knows what that meditation comprised! Nor can it be said that he took much interest in the management of his estate, for he never rode into the country, and the estate practically managed itself. Whenever the bailiff said to him, "It might be well to have such-and-such a thing done," he would reply, "Yes, that is not a bad idea," and then go on smoking his pipe—a habit which he had acquired during his service in the army, where he had been looked upon as an officer of modesty, delicacy, and refinement.
This was the basis for a comment. Isn't that exciting? A comment. What's really exciting is how thirty years faded and the pointlessness of the scatterbrained churn of beer slammed into third year Russian Lit. and Professor Glasov telling us about that book on the table stuck at page fourteen over at old man Manilov's place. In Gogol's take on Dante, Manilov is superficiality. So superficial that he doesn't even have a hobby. Which is odd. Because I have referred to craft beer nerdism as a hobby. Yet it also reminds me of Manilov. Maybe it all reminds me of Manilov collectively. Or is it just that bit that seems to cling on, muttering... Finding unhappiness and discord or, worse, a stake to claim in what is otherwise a pleasant pastime. That might be it. Which should make me wonder why I spend so much time thinking about it. I dunno. I might have a better idea if i ever finished the book.
Are there other things like that particular special part of the craft beer discourse? Cell phone addiction? Or is that even too self-aware for the set who telling blow, whose mocking mark of Zorro is "be happy with the two beers you like."