Egalitarianism and the art of taking a leak.

Yesterday was the occasion of the 18th Annual Indiana Microbrewers Festival in Indianapolis. It was a Brewers of Indiana Guild production, and apart from some light rain at the beginning, probably good enough overall for rock and roll and food and beer on a Saturday afternoon.

Speaking personally, I’m always grateful that so many folks enthusiastically tolerate the discomfort, crowds and expense to come celebrate better beer with us. Without these fans, it is obvious that there could be no “us” in any meaningful conceptual (or commercial) sense. At least the weather yesterday was cooler than usual for July, and the sun mostly muted.

Recuperating on Sunday morning, I began catching up on missed reading, having just returned from England on a transatlantic flight that seemed even more uncomfortable than previous trips.

Class Struggle in the Sky, by James Atlas (New York Times)

During an intercontinental flight, I notice that “on the other side of the curtain” — as the first-class and business cabins are referred to — dinners are being served on white linen tablecloths, with actual bone china. Everyone’s got their “amenities kit” — one of those little nylon bags containing slippers, an eyeshade and a toothbrush. And legroom? Tons. While our seat width contracts — on some airlines by nearly eight inches in recent years — the space up front continues to expand …

… This stark class division should come as no surprise: what’s happening in the clouds mirrors what’s happening on the ground. Statusization — to coin a useful term — is ubiquitous, no matter what your altitude. While you’re in your hospital bed spooning up red Jell-O, a patient in a private suite is enjoying strawberries and cream. On your way to a Chase A.T.M., you notice a silver plaque declaring the existence within of Private Client Services. This man has a box seat at a Yankees game; that man has a skybox …

And so on. Back in June, in a column at LouisvilleBeer.com, I offered what (perhaps) is a heretical viewpoint with reference to beer festivals like the one yesterday. Actually, it was about the one yesterday.

A VIP and an IBU walk into a beer fest

… I’ll cite as a convenient example ticket packages available for the Brewers of Indiana Guild festival in Indianapolis on July 20, while hastening to add that this doesn’t constitute my singling out the Guild for scrutiny; after all, it’s my own trade group. In fact, I imagine BIG is coming to such strategies of ticket pricing rather late in the game.

VIP Experience: $100 (very limited, online only)
Includes early admission (2:00) and access to exclusive VIP Experience Tent (special tappings and food pairings), tasting glass and unlimited beer samples

Early Bird: $55 (limited, online only)
Includes early admission (2:00), tasting glass and unlimited beer samples

General Admission: $40 (advance purchase)
Includes tasting glass and unlimited beer samples

Yesterday I stuck religiously to the Indiana brewer side of the Opti Park fest grounds and didn’t once venture into the “guest brewer” compound, the latter financed primarily by World Class Beer, and accordingly devoted to featuring non-Indiana beers (a topic previously covered here and here).

Consequently, all I know about the VIP Experience Tent is what is noted in the above passage. I can’t tell you whether VIPs had their own port-a-lets (luxury grade or otherwise), although I was told there were plenty of portable toilets lined up on the “guest beer” side of the park, presumably owing to there being more physical space for them.

But I do know this: NABC was positioned at the very end of the misspelled and quite crowded “allee” between the museum and the river, and directly to our right were five (5) port-a-lets. The line to use them was 50 (75? 100?) deep or more for most of the afternoon, until the very end of the festival.

In my June column, I wrote this:

Back out on the pitch, those $40 beer festival ducats still comprise the bread and butter on the fest’s bottom line, and we need to see to it that these attendees are not subjected only to the mud and the blood and the (leftover) beer, while the VIPs strut the corduroyed catwalk, pinkies extended, constantly checking their iPhones to make sure the beer they’re drinking is the truly rare Rye Barrel release, and not that commoner’s Boubon Barrel version that just ANYONE can buy – and subsequently hoard.

Egalitarianism should be a craft/real/better beer ideal, but if egalitarianism even remotely was my guild’s aim yesterday, then toilet lines like the one near us obviously signify a failure that’s rather glaring. Granted, attendees who largely confined themselves to the Indiana brewery area might not have been aware of port-a-lets on the “guest” end, and yet there was ample room for more at “Allee’s” end.

By the end of the afternoon, the ATC-mandated orange fencing defining our salient was being trampled in all directions by men and women looking for secluded tree trunks and underbrush. It was disappointing, to say the least.

Note that as a director serving on the guild’s board, I’m not passing the buck. It is “our” and “we,” not “someone else,” and all of us must be honest and introspective when it comes to planning improvements for a better performance next time out.

I’m saying only this: If I’m ever asked to weigh in, I’ll be voting against a renewal of the VIP Experience. For it to exist alongside hundred-yard lines to use the port-a-let just strikes me as unconscionable.

A VIP and an IBU walk into a beer fest ... and our day at Fishers on Tap.

Yesterday's Fishers on Tap in Indianapolis ran the requisite VIP hour at the beginning, followed by three hours of general admission. But rather than waxing egregious, the VIP portion at Fishers offered the opportunity for attendees to pair Indiana beers with food from local restaurants. The food presenters stopped serving when general admission began, but food trucks (Indy has such a culture; I imagine Floyd County's Health Department prevents it here) began.

The Fishers event was very good in all respects, and a veritable model for how a small outdoor beer fest should find its opening legs. There was a refreshing absence of geek samplers tethered to Untappd, and no roving bands of 22-year-old males asking for the highest alcohol content. There was a surfeit of locals, considerable community spirit, and a mellow vibe all around -- and the band Soul Street was the best music I've ever heard at such a beer fest.

Kudos to the organizers. Here's my column at LouisvilleBeer.com for June 15.

A VIP and an IBU walk into a beer fest

I went to my first rock concert at the age of 15 in 1975. The venue was Louisville Gardens, and the band was Chicago, which had made it only to IX at the time and wasn’t yet overtly pop. Tickets were $7 in advance, and $8 “on the day of show.”

My most recent name brand concert was the Who at Yum Center in February. Tickets cost somewhere around $75 after Ticketmaster’s various digital anal probes, but for a mere $750 (maybe more; who can remember a spare zero or three?) I might have tithed myself into position backstage as a VIP, fed organic Black Sea caviar with a coke spoon formerly wielded by the late, great Keith Moon, and exchanged pre-curtain pleasantries with Pete Townshend just prior to him ceremonially smashing his guitar atop my tonsure – although it occurs to me that fretboard abuse cost an extra C-note, of which I keep plenty around to light cigars.