I've always felt I was born in the wrong time and class. I envy the rogues of Balzac's novels who live their lives of sordid dissipation. Carousing and whoring gourmands who live for the night. It took an adequate inheritance and a disregard for public opinion.

Awaking a few hours before the night begins
with dried wine and whore juice on our chins

We lead a life of dissipation
we drink without cessation
Endlessly imbibing a libation
Combining food with fornication
Yielding to every temptation
Heedless of our souls’ damnation
Our pricks rise to a whore’s flirtation
And weep at her gyration
In her ass our cocks have their lactation
In her pooper there is no impregnation
Pleasure is our fixation
Cognac may decrease our duration
And deaden the sensation
But with enough adoration
Our staffs will reach ejaculation
We withdraw after our seeds’ migration
And with no regard for sanitation
We resume the culinary inhalation
And the alcoholic rehydration
And the whores resume titillation
Seeking still more compensation
And through extensive molestation
Our members gain some augmentation
But through excessive inebriation
With our brains mired in retardation
We can barely achieve penetration
And despite perverse stimulation
And a more than generous application
of saliva and escargot butter for lubrication
The night ends in flaccid frustration
And we stumble blindly to our destination
And find our beds amidst lower class privation
We enjoy dreamless hibernation
And spend the hours of the sun’s aspiration
Our consciousnesses’ temporary cessation
Bathed in urination, defecation and unknown vegetation
Then before dusk a reiteration

Awaking a few hours before the night begins
with dried wine and whore juice on our chins

I carefully packed my two bottles Cowiche Canyon for the flight home. I also brought a bunch of cans. I didn't think they needed special treatment. I just made them fit the suitcase. But when I picked up my bag I smelled beer, and upon opening the bag found some wet clothes. Fortunately the bottles were unbroken. What happened was some cans got crushed. They were beat up bad, which makes me wonder what the hell they do with our luggage when we're not looking. But this story has a happy ending. Most of the beer survived.

The  Republican nominee for president and former Massachusetts governor Patrick Bateman uttered this during the second presidential debate: "Government does not create jobs! Government does not create jobs!"

Some viewers were confused by this. To most sane people, the evidence of government created jobs is all around them. Whether you look at the members of the armed services, school teachers and firemen, or more indirectly at factory workers at a Lockheed plant or even anyone who works with the internet (created by DARPA).

No, that statement wasn't meant to relate anything about reality. It was a shibboleth. Shibboleths are words or phrases used to identify outsiders. The word itself is Hebrew and refers to something I can't remember and can easily be found on the DARPAnet. Basically it's something that's hard to say if you don't belong to a certain group. For instance, in WWII American soldiers exchanged the word lollapalooza to make sure that person walking around at night wasn't Japanese, presuming it would be impossible for a Japanese speaker to say. Or it could be obscure knowledge. If I was applying to a job and I knew the boss was a diehard Florida Gator fan, I might gain favor by talking about Steve Spurrier's family or the length of Tim Tebow's cock.

At the moment the candidate invoked that phrase, he was doing poorly in the debate. Fearful that he may be losing voters former governor Bateman tried to reassure his audience that he was one of them. Bateman's candidacy has struggled with the appearance of sincerity. "Is he one of us?" Conservative voters ask. Despite a record indicating a willingness to hold any position to get elected, Bateman insists that his politics are firmly Right-Wing. By uttering nonsensical shibboleths like the one above he is hoping to allay any Conservative suspicion that he is a fraud. A normal person would be too embarrassed to say such a thing in front of the entire nation. We'll see if it works.

I checked out some previews of the new Rob Zombie film “The Lords of Salem.” I’m excited. I love movies about the devil, and the song the witches are singing in the clip reminds me of my own song “The Invocation.”

I’m probably the most dogmatically atheistic person you’ll ever meet. I mean, I don’t just believe in the fact of a godless, naturalistic universe. I go further and insist that people must believe as I do in order to act ethically. Yet, the occult is the most fascinating subject. Maybe it’s because the occult is all about secrets and shortcuts. Suppose you’re ugly and can’t get laid, you’re tired of being broke all the time, or maybe life is just too damn short and you’re afraid of dying. Just summon a demon and get what you want. It’s easy and it will only cost you your soul, which is probably bullshit anyway.

For thousands of years there have been rituals and incantations to summon forces to aid in material gain. Naturally there have also been prohibitions. If these incantations worked, well, it wouldn’t be good if everyone used them all the time. There’s only so much stuff to go around. If they didn’t work, then that means the associated mythology is bunk also, and the whole system comes crashing down. Can’t have that either. So either way the person who practices black magic is a threat to the system and should be discouraged from evil.

We have a long tradition of cautionary tales about people who sell their souls to the devil. They always get burned while still alive on some technicality. For some reason the devil in these stories isn’t satisfied with getting the person’s soul. He has to hurt the person in real life. Take the guy who gets immortality but life in prison. The devil would win much more souls and have better advertising if he let people live out their lives and just waited to torture them after death.

One reason these stories are so attractive is that the metaphors are so vital. The reality of our world is that we are dominated by people who have profited from occult dealings. Our business and political leaders tend to be people who feel normal morality, or herd morality, doesn’t apply to them. They take advantage of all manner of insider information, family and society connections, racial and religious privileges, blackmail. For example, it may not be supernatural, but the ability to manipulate the Byzantine tax code for profit is close enough to black magic. Or if you’re an honest hard worker trying to climb the corporate ladder only to see doofuses from the same college frat as your CEO leap in line ahead of you, then it doesn’t really matter if the occult is supernatural or not. Someone is playing by hidden rules.

The frustrating thing is that, in practice, selling your soul to the devil really does pay off. Those who cling to the noble notions of fair play and fidelity have to content themselves somehow. So we smugly insist that stubborn virtue pays off in the end, usually by being remembered as a good dude. And we have a great deal of moralistic literature celebrating this. The best example I can think of is “A Man for All Seasons.” So what if Thomas More spent his last days in prison waiting to get his head chopped off? At least he didn’t approve of his friend getting a divorce.

This week I’m in Washington State to drink fresh hop beer. If you know fresh hop beer, you know. If you don’t, you don’t. Whatever. At this place and moment, beer has never been better. Americans should be proud. For the last few centuries there was bickering over who made the best beers. The English, Germans or Belgians? Pipe down, Czechs. The English struck first by spreading their mild, easy-drinking ales around the world by way of empire. The Germans retaliated in the usual way--by insisting on purity and homogenized methods. Meanwhile the Belgians did whatever they wanted with whatever ingredients and without regard for sanitation.

In the 21st century, the U.S. is the undisputed champion of beer. It had to happen because of two main factors:
1. Brewing technology and methods are universal. There are no more secret recipes.
2. We love beer more than family, and we have disposable income.

To be a fresh hop ale the hops must go from field to kettle in 24 hours. This means that not only do we have the technology to deliver this type of beer to many people, but we have the enough demand to make this enterprise profitable. And when you taste the range of fresh hop beers, you taste the variety and technical mastery. You're tasting malt selection and mashing temperatures, the careful timing of when to add hops to the boil, and the final consideration of what temperature is ideal for fermenting this particular beer.

To be fair, the Europeans are masters too. But at different kinds of beers. Belgium has its Trappist ales, Lambics and Saisons, Germany its lagers and hefe-weizens, and England its browns, bitters and stouts. But the thing is, you can take any beer made in Europe and find something equally good made in the U.S.A. Whether it’s the wild unpredictability of Belgium, the clean exactness of Germany, or the cozy maltiness of England. And none of them have mastered the hop like the Americans.

I just opened a bottle of Old Schoolhouse Fresh Hop IPA.

I just took another few swallows. It’s damn good. I like it almost as much as the Fremont Cowiche Canyon.

The difference is that the Cowiche Canyon is all about the fresh hops. It uses a milder pale ale base to give the hops free reign over your senses. This is one of the hoppiest beers I’ve ever had, but isn’t like a normal IPA because it lacks the bitterness that comes from adding hops at the beginning of the boil. Instead they add most of the hops at the end of the brewing so that the flavor and aroma compounds aren’t broken down.

The Old Schoolhouse gives you the fresh hop experience, but on top of an already excellent IPA. This beer has the familiar backbone of bitterness that you expect from a West Coast IPA.

Which is better? It depends on your style. How do you like your sweetbreads? Do you like to buy a pile of them from a butcher and grill them and eat them with minimal seasoning and side items? Or do you like them as part of an extravagant meal, with a delicate sauce and an appropriate wine? Neither is better, it’s just a matter of personal style. If you’re a hop freak you’ll love both beers. And if you’re like the vast majority of beer drinkers in the world, you won’t be able to tell the difference, and what kind of an asshole goes across the country to drink an $8 beer anyway?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a beer snob. I’m a beer lover. I’m the Jesus of beer. I welcome all beers into my house. PBR, Miller and Michelob are welcome to share a refrigerator shelf with Orval, Russian River and Cigar City. Granted, there is a hierarchy. I won’t drink a Bud Light before a Burton Baton. And that Corona Extra Light that has been on the bottom shelf for two years is probably damned.

Whoa. Now I just poured a Chasing Freshies from Deschutes.

This is the lightest fresh hop ale I’ve had. It’s good, but overshadowed by the Old Schoolhouse that’s still on my palate.

Where was I? Oh yeah, beer snobbery. So, I love beer, but I wouldn’t be so crazy about it if it didn’t make me feel as good as it does. And since the beer from the world’s megabreweries is as predictable and palatable as the food from McDonald’s (minus the horrid environmental problems) I can be assured of a path to feeling okay about the world and my place in it. In fact, one of my favorite beers lately is Miller 64. It’s a 64-calorie beer with a low alcohol content. It’s like beer mixed with seltzer water. It’s a beer spritzer. It’s great for the parent who loves drinking beer but doesn’t want to get sloshed while waiting in line to pick up the kids from school.

I’ll drink whatever. But given the choice I’ll take the good beer. Now I'm going to go get drunk.

Most of the music I listen to is metal. All songs could be improved with the addition of double bass drums and palm muted rhythm guitar. I would love to be able to make metal music on my guitar, but that's just not what comes out. My music just ends up being goofy. It's certainly not the guitar's fault. Look at it.

It has that stabby-looking headstock. I call it an angel gig. In the right hands it can make the sickest sounds on Earth. But even though I play with lots of distortion, I tune to D and I have evil in my heart, my songs tend to sound folky and Cheesy.

It's probably just because metal is so goddamned hard to play. I don't have a sense of beat and I don't like to practice much. Instead I make songs like this one:

The Institute has put some songs in the music section. One of the songs, "Wiggle," is almost too precious for The Institute. The other two are occult hymns.