There is a pirate ship in my office. Three solid masts hoist six full red and white sails to taut, nautical potential. Its crew—13 jaunty lads and lasses—stands ready for subterfuge or sortie, whichever may come first. Its proud prow protrudes into the waves, following the compass’ point, ever vigilant for seagulls or a vague outline of the archipelago’s echo.
Of course, the ship is made of LEGO, and the only sea it’s sailing is the one in my imagination.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been infatuated by small things. LEGO was a natural introduction to the menagerie of microcosm for any American kid, but my interests bled into tiny metal knights in tiny mental kingdoms, and a preternatural feeling that Brian Jacques was writing Redwall books exclusively for me.
There are many psychological theories as to why humans are drawn to miniature objects. Most focus on control in situations where people have none: opulent dollhouses for people who can’t afford opulent homes. But I find the practical application of miniatures much more fascinating. The scale and vision derived from architectural model-making, the deductive insight gained from mini crime scene recreation—even the magic brought to life on screen by tiny film sets.
It is awesome to look down on a clever recreation not as a god seeking control, but rather as an impartial arbiter, simply wanting to look at life from a new perspective. That perspective provides mental space to analyze, learn, grow. The magic of small things, to me, is being able to better understand the whole by making it objectively more tangible—I could visit a real pirate ship, sure, but somehow it being me-sized reduces its impact and ability to adhere to my imagination. Mini can be more, in so many ways.
As an adult, not much has changed. My environment—indulged by my pursuit of Campbell’s proverbial sacred spaces (spaces that are so personalized and comfortable to you, they inspire creativity)—is literally littered with small things. Little orcs and wizards, scale diecast cars, eight different saplings I’ve rescued in clumsy attempts at DIY bonsai. All the tiny fiction around me comes to life as I work, as if my office were Honey I Shrunk the Kids’d and dropped squarely into a place out of time and waking reality. It’s comforting to be Gulliver in a personalized Lilliput.
My preference for all things minuscule has permeated pretty much every corner of my being by now—I’ve driven a MINI for 19 years, my favorite photography is macro and tiltshift, and of course, I prefer smaller foods like bao buns alongside sipping tipples. I’ve always been a proponent of the half pint, but as my age creeps upwards, my taste for ABV creeps downwards.
In the event I’m actually able to visit a brewery or bar these days, my eyes scan quickly for the lowest numbers I can find. Anything sub 6% is fine, but trending sub 5? Divine. Those options are few and far between—especially as mid-to-high-strength IPAs still clog menus like forgotten beard hair in a sink drain. But when I do find them, I almost always order them.
I can’t remember which brewer said this to me, but I’ve held onto it closely for years: “When you visit a new brewery, try their simplest beer first. That will tell you everything you need to know about how well they brew.” It’s not a perfect adage, but it has proven true for me for a long time; in a simple or low-ABV beer, there’s no room to hide. IPAs can diffuse and mask with an affront of hops, and Imperials or overly adjuncted aberrations can slyly tuck defects behind fusel alcohols or literal breakfast cereals.
If a fruited sour slushie “beer” is the costume a brewery wears to the masquerade ball, a low-ABV Lager or Cream Ale is that brewery laid bare. In the details of that glass you can taste the skill of the brewing team, their dedication to process and cleanliness, quality of ingredients, and management of their yeast. The low-ABV beer is the microcosm of the brewery: their miniature for me to analyze, gain perspective from, understand.
As a husband and a father and a person with too many other hobbies (so many orcs to paint), I have less and less dedicated time for enjoying beer. Long gone are the nights of cracking a Barley Wine and an Imperial Stout, whittling down the wee hours of the night with friends. I now have to work beer into those few, precious, fleeting moments between responsibilities. In those rare windows, I want the focus and challenge to be in the conversation, the interaction, not what’s in my glass.
Despite rumors that no one likes beer anymore, I do. I can’t think of a single context where grabbing a seltzer with a friend would be as culturally satisfying as grabbing a beer. But I do appreciate what seltzer as a drink brings to the table—simplicity in a beverage shifts the mental load from analyzing what you’re drinking to enjoying the good time you’re having with people you love.
I may never be the target demographic for hard seltzer, but I do admire its unabashed accessibility. In a world of giant flavors, too cumbersome to reasonably take on, here comes a drink happy—nay, designed—to play second fiddle to the experience. After a decade of craft beer doing pretty much the opposite, it’s actually quite refreshing.
For the first time in a long time, I’m more concerned about who I’m having a beer with than what beer I’m drinking. The little Lagers and shrunken Stouts of the world are reflections of the person I’ve grown to be: someone who’d rather take bite-sized chunks out of life than try to swallow it whole.
