SUPERMANIFESTO 2025.

This Supermanifesto begins painfully. My father Marty passed away in May, three months shy of his 92^nd birthday. He had been grappling with a “mystery illness” that taxed his breathing and strength. As a live-in caregiver, I witnessed his entire struggle firsthand. An inherently selfish part of me wants to share some difficult imagery with you and wants you to throw your arm around me, but I will spare you that imagery, even if you still might throw your arm around me.

Often I turn to aggressive music, punk or similar, when something outrageous has taken place, but I find myself partial to “Leaving Eden,” a 2012 ballad by the Carolina Chocolate Drops. Before they disbanded about 10 years ago, the Chocolate Drops reinvigorated many decades of traditional African American music. Too, Dom Flemons (playing guitar) is a friend of the ongoing “Liza Jane” documentary film project. 

A final word on my book Poor Gal, which chronicles the “Liza Jane” family of songs. It came out amidst my father’s illness, and at the time, I could not participate in any author events. Thus, I feel especially lucky for a couple of great 2024 reviews in the USA Today network and Washington City Paper, as well as a highly enjoyable interview at Bluegrass Jam Along by UK podcaster Matt Hutchinson. Huxley & Hiro Bookstore hosted the first book release event (about a year after Poor Gal appeared) at The Queen in Wilmington, Del., and I was really surprised when, this past October, Poor Gal received a “Special Recognition Award” from the ASCAP Foundation in its 55^th annual Deems Taylor / Virgil Thomson Book Awards. Many thanks to all (inter)(re)viewers and readers alike. 

My friend Casey Smith (“yjb”) printed this four-word poem when we hung out a couple months ago. It is a fabulous little broadside and Casey hails from a righteous people. Shall we pen some strophes in 2025? Well, well, well, yes we shall.

Photo Credit: Sausages (Mike Zito)

Up that alley, I will be back at the microphone with the improvisational collective Fanoplane, which will play Comet Ping Pong in Washington, D.C. on February 8^th. This will be, I believe, a “release event” for a CD of our live performance at the Black Cat, which went kablooey well. I am also looking to get back at the microphone with a “rock combo” where “combo” equals “orchestra plus vocals.” Let it be so. In twenty aught twenty-five.

A fifteen-second video of my dad trying to say “burglars.” He was raised in a Bronx tenement and never pronounced “ers” as anything other than “iz.” For instance, “big fierce tigers” would become “big fierce tigiz.” (My mother says “burglars” correctly but she was raised in Brooklyn.) To boot, Marty implies that anyone can “send in the burgliz” as if you were ordering a pizza, just burgliz instead.

Out searching for my friend the fox – or her offspring (a bloke of the species who engaged in a cross-taxonomy fling with a Welsh corgi) – when suddenly there was an incident. A red-tailed hawk flew into my face! Its full wing stole me upside the jaw. I do not think it saw me, but how could it not see me, it did or did not see me, it wing-slapped me and then soared, alit, it alit in a treetop. It was up there all statuesque, all proud of its powerful aviation and slippery withdrawal, while I flubbered my sensibilities into “recently slapped.” The incident was feathery but not pillowy, the wing was momentarily blinding and surprisingly firm. For all I know, it may have been a friendly gesture. Either way, I persevered. (And snapped this pic of the offending raptor.)

This family – buck, doe, fawn – are my favorite deer. The other “hoofed ruminants” are, like, bounding here, bounding there. Whatevs. These are my peeps.

I hardly drink anymore (demi-baddie) so I hope you can tell this is a special occasion – in wishing you a Happy New Year! May you and your loved ones be healthy and joyful in the months ahead.

This has been a raking, searching Supermanifesto. Even as I can try to joke-away some of the pain, “the pain,” observed poet Robert Creeley, “is not unpainful.” Indeed. It will carry into 2025 but we must also carry love, and adventurousness, and brawn into the new year. For me, the new year will present numerous uncertainties. Questions like “where?” and “what on earth?” However it goes, I hope to see you then, my friends, and if so, we will jump and shake. It would not be a true Blood And Gutstein without a couple of “shakers” by rock ‘n’ roll and R&B combos. If you are a ‘night creature’ then you might be content with the estimable mayhem above. But if you require something more, I dunno, “hewing,” then I have got you covered with “Pass the Hatchet, Part 2” (below.) As always, we here at B.A.G. suggest that you corral your sweetie pie. Play these songs loud. Jump high. Shake those shoulders out with maximum esprit de corps & if you need to describe your experience, I am here for you.

Discography for The Gigolo’s (sic) and Roger & The Gypsies

The Gigolo’s. “Night Creature” B-side b/w “Swingin’ Saints” A-side. Daynite Gig-1 / Gig-2, Phoenix, Arizona, 1960. Likely personnel: Bob Taylor (drums); Don Cole (guitar); Buddy Wheeler (bass); and Zeke Zoeckler (saxophone); other musicians, if any, unknown. Compositional credit: Bob Taylor and (first name unknown) Knight.

Roger & The Gypsies. “Pass The Hatchet (Part 2)” B-side b/w “Pass The Hatchet (Part 1)” A-side. Seven B 7001. New Orleans (1966). Compositional credit: Earl Oropeza, Ray Theriot, and Roger Leon Jr. Likely personnel: Eddie Bo (vocals) with Earl Stanley & The Stereos. [Earl Stanley (lead guitar); Roger Leon Jr. (guitar); Skip Easterling (organ); Johnny Pennino (sax); Li’l Joe Lambert (drums); Nicky Bodine (bass); Art Sir Van (piano); and Hector Nieves (maracas). Any additional musicians unknown.]

MANIFESTO & SUPERMANIFESTO 2024

 Manifesto & Supermanifesto 2024 begins with the most unexpected development of my career. On November 27, University Press of Mississippi released my nonfiction book Poor Gal: The Cultural History of Little Liza Jane. This capped an intensive six-year research process into the most important folk song in American history. Aside from all the stunning historical information I absorbed as well as learning so many “Liza Jane” songs that now regularly dance inside my head, I developed quite a bit as a writer. It was important to step out of my “creative writing voice” and into a realm that was far more important than “me.” For once, I did not find myself trying to write poetry or fiction by depending upon “my own legend.” Instead, I functioned as a conduit for “Liza Jane” to tell its estimable story, one that reminds us of our shared humanity.

I could not have written Poor Gal without significant mentorship by a bloke named David Evans. A two-time Grammy winner, musician, professor emeritus, author, and blues ambassador, David provided patient, old-school guidance from the darkest days of the pandemic all the way to the book’s production. I had read his legendary book Big Road Blues when I lived in Arcata, but I should like to note the appearance of Going Up the Country, a 2023 work David co-wrote with Marina Bokelman. Going Up the Country blends an adventure narrative with detailed notes about making field recordings and, at its heart, relays an edgy investigation into American folk and blues music.

I enter 2024 with an ambitious creative agenda. I am hoping to step back to the microphone once again as a lyricist-vocalist with a band. Together with my colleague Emily Cohen, I am / we are still cranking away on a documentary film about “Little Liza Jane.” Emily and I feel a renewed sense of momentum regarding this endeavour (sic). Having seen Poor Gal hit the bookshelves, I have returned (buoyantly) to my “creative writing practice” or rather my “roots” as a writer. On the one hand, this would involve dealing with some shocking experiences—such as the long-ago murder of my friend Warren—as well as rendering myself more “vulnerable” in the presence of my own foibles. 

This too, of course. Not long after my friend (and his girlfriend) were murdered, my brother David Gutstein passed away. He had just turned 27. Over the last twelve months, I have really reflected upon the gift of life. One that I have been fortunate enough to enjoy but my brother was not fully able to: he has been gone, by now, for more years than he lived. He had not really gotten started. I visited his grave earlier this year and it really f****** hurt. Yet this well of emotion cannot simply smolder. It must lead to creativity, community—and earthly love. 

“I hate spending a lot of time in graveyards / We’re all gonna spend a lot of time in graveyards.” I meant these lyrics with both acidic and ironic properties alike. (Obviously, they follow from my admission above.) This music video from Joy on Fire’s 2022 album States of America is certainly titled for the season. The song features a medium burn and a more lyrical presentation than some of the hard-charging songs we fashioned together. Too, John Paul Carillo (bass, guitar) and Anna Meadors (saxophones) visited some fabulous production values on the effort. They filmed half of it in Trenton and the other half here, with me, in the Rockville, Md. area. “Show interest / Show interest / I show interest you” is aimed at you, my friend. Reach out. Let’s talk.

Let us not end the year without some serious geese and gosling action. Have a gander at this here gaggle as they comply with local traffic signage. They do not run afoul of going the wrong way down a one-way, so you can relax, the giant yellow arrow tells said waddlers where to waddle. These fowls are headed to the creek, where they can duck back onto the water. Even as they disappear around the bend, it is not their swan song. These here gooses can be seen regularly in the air as a plump wedge. In fact, they live in the same habitat (where their habit is at) as my best animal friend forever, the mischievous scoundrel known as The Fox.

People ask me have you seen The Fox? Well, yes I have. She is quite robust. Rusty red. Full of mischief. A true scoundrel of the finest calibre (sic). This summer, I spent some time with her before I went to live downtown in a friend’s apartment. Perhaps she sensed that I might be departing for a bit, so we chilled in the shallow woods, enjoying each other’s company. For some reason, the fake Australian accent emerges—“You’re a good lookin’ fox, man”—but she’s a vixen, not a reynard (sic). When she sees me, she has this way of darting a short distance away and then abruptly sitting down. She slays me pretty good with her wily shenanigans!

I’ll never forget the day The Fox let me sit at the edge of the den, where her seven kits flounced about, clearly inheritors of the same vulpine mischief. She brought seven rascally souls into the world!

Notably, in 2023, I vanquished my first chess-bot rated 2000—even as I played the black pieces! I am usually too chicken to sacrifice my queen, but I did so because an opportunity presented itself. And lo, the chess-bot was check-mated. Heh heh heh.

Happy New Year, Everyone! My very best wishes to you and your loved ones.

It would not be a true Blood And Gutstein post without a thumping R&B shaker. You may know Booker T. and the MGs for their hit “Green Onions” but I will take “MG Party” any day. The addition of horns to the classic lineup really clinches this song as a romping dance-floor instrumental from 1964. The infectious, propulsive beat will overcome the proceedings. To wit, let us flounce like kits, let us sacrifice our queens, let us croon at the microphone, let us be mentored, let us tell the kinds of tales that exemplify our connections to one another. Above all else, let us strive for peace and love. This is aimed at you, my friend. Reach out. Let’s talk.


----
discographical information for “MG Party”
Booker T. and the MG’s. “MG Party” B-side b/w “Soul Dressing” A-side. Stax S-153, Memphis, Tennessee, 1964. Likely personnel: Booker T. Jones (organ); Steve Cropper (guitar); Donald Dunn (bass guitar); Al Jackson, Jr. (drums); Wayne Jackson (trumpet); Floyd Newman (baritone saxophone); Charles “Packy” Axton (tenor saxophone). Compositional credit: Jones, Cropper, Jackson, Dunn.

FOX, BEARD, ANNIVERSARY: A PHOTO-ESSAY DESPATCH (SIC) FROM CORONAVIRUS LOCKDOWN.

key to the images (click on them to enlarge)

1 and 2. The fox and I have bridged the vulpine-person divide and become friends. However, she is feeding her cubs these days and has little time to shoot the baloney. Here, she is pictured galloping toward the den with unlucky prey (a squirrel?) in her mouth.

3. Beard / Beered. That would be, of course, a stout. 

4. I made a mask! (Out of an old t-shirt.)

5. My parents, Ruth and Marty, getting married, 60 years ago. I am “embedded” with them, in order to help them survive the pandemic.

6. My parents today, sharing a nice moment at the kitchen table, having been married for 60 years. Many more happy returns to them!

The days ahead: Soon, there will be a video release by Joy on Fire, the band I collaborate with, and eventually I hope to “re-launch” my latest book release, which got swallowed up by the early days of the nationwide lockdown. Thanks for visiting this blog—I hope that you and your loved ones are safe and healthy. —Dan

BEER AS BOUTIQUE GOODS + THE AMERICAN IPA APPARATUS + PASTRY STOUT: COMPLAINT(S).

 “By order of the Peaky F——in’ Blinders!”

Whatever happened to that urban fantasy of sitting in the pub’s window, quite forlorn, staring onto the darkening street—the lights, the tipsy hookups, the clamor, the sweet misery of it all—except that the beer costs 10 bucks and it’s served in a thimble-snifter, and everyone in that city is happy enough thinking that their Facebook comments account for true activism. To boot, there is India Pale Ale, like, jumping out of the curtains, EVERYWHERE. This is the beer of the soldiers who hanged “Danny Deever,” am I right? Well, Danny Deever was hanged in 1890, so can we bloody well produce some other styles of beer bloody well already? The Brewer’s Association (and just about everybody else) confirms that American IPA continues to drive the growth of craft beer. Thus, Beer Drinker, your future involves scant pours, skyrocketing tabs, and mega-hoppie (sic) bitterness. But that’s not all. No, there is a tragedy called “pastry stout.” The great, great, great terrain of the dark swills has been compromised by the likes of “gingerbread stout” and “tiramisu stout” and “German chocolate cupcake stout.” Deeee-foooooooook meeeeeeee LIIIIIIFE. 

Yes, there shall be stout and pancakes. Of course there shall be stout and pancakes! You shall pour the stout into the proper vessel, a glassware that permits at least 16 ounces of swill to accumulate. (The froth shall not count toward the total amount of swillage.) Yes, the stout shall be handed to the swiller. Lo, the pancakes shall be placed on a plate, preferably a large plate as they shall be, preferably, large pancakes. The syrup shall be delivered as shall be the pat of butter. It is assumed that silverware will be made available, and by that we mean proper cutlery: fork, knife, rolled within a laundered napkin. Dig it: the pancake shall be beside the stout. Beside the stout, not within the stout! For the love of Jiminy Cricket, do not put the pancake inside the stout, or inside the porter either, for that matter. And don’t start up with me about stout. “Ohhh, the stout is too heavy.” “Ohhh, the stout is for winter.” (Buzzer noise: Wrong again.) But wait a minute. There is no stout, unless you count the likes of barrel-aged maple pecan bacon-butt stout. Where’s the stout? Show me the stout! And I don’t mean on a dessert menu! SHOW ME THE SESSIONABLE STOUT. 

The view from the pub.

According to various scholars, Rudyard Kipling set his poem,“Danny Deever,” in India, during the British occupation, circa 1890. Two characters in the poem, Files-on-Parade and the Colour Sergeant, are remembering the doomed Danny Deever who’s being hung for a murder. Here’s an excerpt of their conversation, from the third stanza: “‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on-Parade. / ‘’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.” [It’s kind of cold that Files has drunk his beer, a score ‘times, but we digress.] Ah, the bitter beer. True, it could be British Bitter ale, BUT IT’S NOT. It’s IPA, since the poem is set in India, and since the British brewed extra-strength ale so it wouldn’t spoil en route, via barkentines, to its destination, where it would mollify the troops that had been installed to aid in colonial oppression. We at Blood And Gutstein don’t disparage ABV that drifts into the upper register, Nopte, but we do disparage the bitter part, the hops-along Cassidy part. All the hops, all the bitterness, and now, WHATWHAT, the citrus, the ‘hazy’ IPA, the JUICY (“Sweet Lucy!”) IPA, the grapefruit beer, the triple IPA, Cor Blimey, Me Piles Itch Me Soooooooooooooooo.

We now turn to our panel of experts, Fluffy, Sausages, and The Machine, who are advising this blog during Complaint Week 2019.
            “Doot doot,” says Fluffy.

            “My figured goblet for a dish of wood,” says Sausages.

“There’s a national stout emergency,” writes The Machine. “I mean, what happens when all beer becomes specialty beer? Does specialty beer become just beer? And then, one day, when regular stout comes back, will it be specialty stout?”

Roight.

Thank you, gentlemen. I mean, I will always refer to you as gentlemen, no matter they say about you! Right. Roight. When a style such as stout becomes overrun with nonsensical versions of itself, and becomes Boutique Specialty beer, what will a 5 percent regular stout eventually turn into, a couple years from now: Boutique Specialty? Well, it must be, since we’re installing pastry stout as the normative stout, and we’re installing Juicy Sweet Lucy IPA as America’s Beer, never mind the fact that it appears in carefully metered pours, Aye, in “sniftiz.” Would the American IPA Apparatus produce 10 percent fewer IPAs and 10 percent more stouts? Would the American Beer Apparatus establish a Beer Drinker’s Bill of Rights, such as 16 ounce pours into pint glasses or mugs? I mean, you can’t serve a beer in a shot glass. BEER IS NOT WHISKEY. Mostly though, Show me the stout! Where’s the stout? WHATWHAT? And no four-packs of stout, either, for fooooook’s saaaaake. If you must vend stout in a quantity other than a six-pack, then GIVE ME AN EIGHT PACK OF SESSIONABLE STOUT. (Complaint!)

blood and gutstein complaint week 2019: no solutions—just gripes

monday: democrats

tuesday: education

wednesday: poetry

thursday: beer

friday: sports

FILM MAKING 101.

Starring:

Rod Smith

Director:

Dan Gutstein

Running Time:

5 seconds

Rating:

S for Stout.

Advance Praise:

"Classic noir. (We mean, the color of the beer.)"

--Rolling Stoner

"Concise dialogue. Right to the point. (Of no return.)"

--The Atlantic (Ocean)

"A morality tale for the ages. Just what ages? What tale? What morality?"

--GQ & A

EAST COAST BEARD, WEST COAST BEARD.

West Coast beard

Of all the alleged disparities between the two seashores—East Coast stout, West Coast stout—East Coast political outrage, West Coast political outrage—East Coast romantic suspense, West Coast romantic suspense—East Coast brooding, West Coast brooding—East Coast potato dish, West Coast potato dish—and so forth, I am here to report that my beard, modest as it may be, appears to be growing according to universal patterns of bearded development. This is noteworthy, since I have grown a beard, modest as it may be, both on the East Coast, where I formerly resided, and on the West Coast, where I currently reside.

The corner turret

If you care to know, I am situated most often at longitude 40 degrees, 52 minutes, 14 seconds North, latitude 124 degrees, 5 minutes, 11 seconds West, in the corner turret. Currently, me and my beard are looking out the corner turret at 88 degrees East toward the Arcata Community Forest. Currently, me and my beard are drinking a West Coast stout, Deschutes Obsidian Stout, oh yes, we heartily recommend this fine brew, do me and my beard. Afterwards, technically, we are both “beered” as the kids say. East Coast puns, West Coast puns: they’re all pretty dreadful in the end. But the forest is not dreadful. The forest is tall, quiet, cathedral, sage, vigilant.

East Coast beard

I am assimilating among the peoples of the West Coast, which is all to say that I am engaging in comparisons (as you can tell). If you live on the East Coast, then we must traverse great distances in order to keep company, but we shall, traverse great distances and keep company, you and I. If you reside on the West Coast, then the distances to traverse aren’t so great, and let us traverse them, you and I, for my abode might house you if you might need housing, and my abode might feed you, if you need nourishment, and my abode might uncork the wonders of song and drink, if you need merriment, and you do. The door is always open, friend.

This Posts Is Part of New Home California Day. Also See:

why i love poets

why i’m still swansea

PHOTO ESSAY: BLIZZID OF 2016.

PHOTO ESSAY: I BREWED FIVE GALLONS OF STOUT PORTER.

                 Original gravity: 1.0670

                 Final gravity: 1.0236

                 Alcohol by volume: 5.70%

                 IBU: 30

                 Main ingredients:

                 Yeast: English ale

                 Hops: Fuggle, East Kent Golding

                 Malts: Crystal caramel, Chocolate, Victory, Black

FIVE TOP AMERICAN CRAFT STOUTS IN THREE CATEGORIES—SESSIONABLE, MID-RANGE, AND IMPERIAL—(BY ABV) (+7 PORTERS) THAT YOU MUST DRINK BEFORE YOU CAN HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH ME ABOUT DARK BEER.

Port Brewing A.B.L.E. Stout, Ocean Beach.

Sadly, it does not travel beyond San Diego.

In addition to producing an array of beers brewed with staggering quality, the American craft beer revolution has endorsed a sense of “the local” as well, with competent beers appearing in the tasting rooms or articulated pubs of great micro-breweries across the country—in cities large and towns small. Some of these beers are world-beaters, to be sure, but not all of them travel in bottle or keg outside the locality. When compiling a list of top examples, therefore, one must consider the brews that others can reasonably locate at their tap-houses or beer stores. Below follows just such a list. You can probably tell that I am partial to dark beer, having tasted, conservatively, upwards of 1,000 stouts and porters in the past few years. I have swilled all over the country, from Boston to Chattanooga, from Chicago to San Diego, from Washington, D.C. to Seattle, Washington, sampling, along the way, many stouts and porters unavailable nationally. Some of these local dark beers have been special, including, let’s say, Port Brewing Company’s A.B.L.E. Stout in Ocean Beach, an American double at 8.20% that may not be brewed again, and will never travel. The A.B.L.E. stout reminded me of Founders Breakfast Stout, a major beer that is available in most areas. The Founders beer and all other stouts do offer nutritive benefits (antioxidants, to name one) when consumed in moderation. The key thing, when sampling such a fine beverage, is to effect moderation. But I digress. Let me get to the list, which I have broken into three divisions, according to alcohol by volume, or ABV. The first category I will deem “Sessionable Stout”, with ABV not to exceed 6.50%. I will name the second category “Mid-Range Stout”, with ABV between 6.51% and 8.99%, and the third category “Imperial Stout”—for ABV values that soar above 9.00%. You can thank Catherine the Great (love that gal!) for imperials, as she commissioned the production of the very first one, a stout that would endure the snowy journey from England to Mother Russia without freezing en route. This list (“Warning!”) may be controversial to some. For one, I have organized it primarily by alcohol content, not necessarily by style. I have also determined my own ABV divisions. The list, moreover, does not include stouts and porters from abroad, not even from Mother Canada. The list does not attempt to establish these beers as the ultimate tops in their categories, but as “five of the tops”, even though these beers may be the very five tops after all. Click here if you need any instruction on how to imbibe a dark brew. Otherwise: to the pub! Comments welcome!  

Five Top Sessionable Stouts (up to 6.5% ABV.)

Sierra Nevada Stout 5.8%

Deschutes Obsidian Stout 6.4%

Wolavers Oatmeal Stout 5.9%

Anderson Valley Barney Flats Oatmeal Stout 5.7%

Sixpoint Diesel 6.3%

Five Top Middle-Range Stouts (6.51% to 8.99% ABV.)

Founders Breakfast Stout 8.3%

Evolution Rise Up Stout 6.8%

Bar Harbor Cadillac Mountain Dry Irish Stout 6.7%

Green Flash Double Stout 8.8%

Big Bear Black Stout 8.1%

Five Top Imperial Stouts (9.00% ABV and above.)

Founders Imperial Stout 10.5%

Alesmith Speedway Stout 12.0%

Deschutes The Abyss 11.0%

Stone Russian Imperial Stout 10.5%

North Coast Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout 9.0%

Porters (any ABV.)

Deschutes Black Butte Porter 5.2

Mayflower Porter 5.5%

Russian River Porter 6.1%

Founders Porter 6.5%

Anchor Porter 5.6%

Smuttynose Robust Porter 6.2%

Great Lakes Edmund Fitzgerald Porter 5.8%

SWILLING ON THE DARK SIDE: HOW TO DRINK STOUT IN SEVEN EASY STEPS (+APPENDICES) (+FAQ)

Learn how to drink this, the best STOUT on earth.

Primer can be pronounced “primmer” or “pry-mer.” “Roight!” [1.] preparatory exercises. One must consider Limberings of the Ligaments when preparing for “a touch of the STOUT.” Fingerpoppings as it were. Recommended, if necessary, are delectables, spectacles, shower & shave. You must be at least 25 pct. properly attired, i.e., haberdashery, if you will, but you needn’t check your skepticism. do not persist in any sort of referential mania, such as gratuitous politicking. [2.] incantations & recitations. En route to the saloon, engage in a traditional chantey, such as: “I drink a drink / and I skip a drink / and when I skip a drink / I drink a beer.” Yodelings are often necessary, given the circumstances, as well as Jello slappings. If you must, recite a chapter from Because It Is Bitter & Because It Is My STOUT. do not pray to the volcano, the hurricane & the mongoose simultaneously. [3.] at the pub. Roight! If there is but one STOUT on the premises, order a STOUT. Otherwise, request the house menu. When deciding among STOUT, we suggest skepticism (see above) re: anything Walloonie, Walloonie Bin & Metrosexuale Belgique. Your STOUT may appear before you in a goblet. We suggest that you weather this indignity with casual modesty. do not bum rush the STOUT. [4.] what to expect: The nose should admit a waft of the roasted malt, if not a waft of the roasted barley, among other suitable trails. The cap should ride your STOUT, even as it thins, to the bottom of the glass, leaving behind a nice latticework to the sides. The mouthfeel shall be creamy & appropriately carbonated, as the aftermath shall not be boozy. Lo, the STOUT shall deliver a pleasant bitterness & ye shall deliver an appropriate sum, therefore, to the barkeep. If you have needs to make water, make water. do not hesitate, upon your return, to order another pour. [5.] feeling good about yourself. Hoist your second STOUT & have a look around the saloon proper. Say “Hey, Mama” with your eyes. Say “mon petit oiseau bleu” with your eyes. By then the antioxidants brewed into your STOUT shall have informed your corporeal salubriousness. The eyes of others shall behold this radiance in solidarity. do not suddenly conceive of a life to be spent with excessive creams & oils & robes & hairshirts. [6.] a word on porter & black ipa. You may swill English porter & American porter however you wish. You may swill strong ales & black ipa however you wish, although there is a suggested donation of $5 per pint, payable directly to our bar tabs. You may not, under any circumstances, swill any other kind of ales & lagers, if you expect extraordinary favors from us. We define ‘extraordinary favors’ as repeated validation of your radical stances (we ain’t no parking lot!) & anything morally abdominal. do not, however, forget your whiskey flask! [7.] walking home. Beware the temptation of the empanada. Beware the temptation of the meatloaf special. Beware the temptation of the slice, jumbo & otherwise. Beware the temptation of the sha cha chicken. Beware the temptation of rare oop on vinyl. do not eat rare oop on vinyl! [8.] appendix i: the trajectory of a debauch. When contemplating a debauch, consider the Lo-Hi Crescendo: English Porter, American STOUT, Double STOUT, Imperial STOUT. Reversely, the Hi-Lo Crescendo operates from Imperial (~10.0 pct ABV) to Double (~8.3 pct.) to American (~5.8 pct.) to English Porter (~4.8 pct.) You may substitute an Oatmeal STOUT for an American. To wit, there are other trajectories, as well. There are, collectively, The Wounded Capuchin, The Chorus Girl & the Chaise Longue, The Spouse & The Souse, The Gravestone Rubbing & The Intercontinental Ballistic STOUT-drinking Trajectories. [9.] appendix ii: on sessionable stout & sessionability.  We endorse a plain-roasted, plain-bitter American, Irish, or Oatmeal STOUT for STOUT-drinking “sessionability”—meaning that, Ladies & Gents, you could drink flagons of these in sequence, without getting all knockout-y, knock-need-y & knock-knock-y. Your friends at BAG have sampled upwards of 750 STOUT / porter over the past several campaigns, & while we haven’t sampled every brew in the world, we are ready to endorse Sierra Nevada STOUT as best-in-sessionability, Founders Breakfast STOUT as all-around-best-in-STOUT & the Founders suite of dark beers, Porter, Breakfast STOUT, Imperial STOUT, Kentucky Breakfast STOUT, et al., as the greatest such suite available in bottle & draught. [10.] faq. Q: Does STOUT increase performance? A: Ask Zenyatta, the champion race horse, who lapped it up, so to speak, every day. Q: Must I complete a Solemn Round of Industry in the morning? A: Yes, if you intend on drinking any more STOUT. If you drink STOUT, however, the Round of Industry may seem a little less Solemn than for non-STOUT drinkers. Q: Who is the most famous STOUT drinker in the history of the world? A: Catherine The Great, Tsarina Extraordinaire, Commissar & Commissioner of the Russian Imperial STOUT. Q: Will STOUT make me hungry? A: Have a wafer, Lads & Lasses, if you develop a touch of the famine. Roight!