Lobbyist: Representative Jones says his favorite beer is Beck's Dark. What should we suggest for him?

Brad: Beck's Dark? That's a really dull lager.

Natalie: Not as dull as regular Beck's.

Brad: But pretty dull. We need something with a similar profile.

Jon: How about a doppelbock? That wouldn't be too aggressive.

Brad: Yeah, a doppelbock's okay...as long as it isn't too syrupy.

Natalie: Spaten Optimator.

Jon: Oh, shit yeah!

Brad: Yes. Spaten Optimator. Perfect.

Lobbyist: You know, you people speak a different language. It's like listening to people speaking Norwegian or something.

Beer geeks are their own special type of nerd. Like other breeds of psychotic foodies, we seek out the wildest, most intense examples of our chosen milieu, a pursuit that keeps getting more difficult. Fifteen years ago, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale was considered a radical brew, one that challenged the entire idea of what an American beer ought to be. Now it is the #1 craft brewing brand in the nation, surpassing even Sam Adams Boston Lager in sales.

Of course, beer geeks got over Sierra Nevada a long time ago. Which isn't to say we don't salt away cases of Celebration and Bigfoot every year. But we've gravitated to such oddities as Rogue's I-squared PA, a "double" India Pale Ale that is so packed with hops, malt and (of course) alcohol that it instantly dissolves the skin in your mouth. Bottles of the stuff go for outrageous prices, though not nearly as absurd as the price of a brew like Dogfish Head's 120-Minute Pale Ale. I sampled a 5 oz. snifter at the Dogfish Head pub in Rehoboth Beach, Del., last fall. Set me back $7. Last fall, my wife Barbara picked up a single 12 oz. bottle for me while she was on assignment in Florida. To this day she has refused to say how much she paid for it, only that it was more than $10. The stuff goes for $100-$110 a case wholesale, so all I can say is that she probably didn't overpay by much.

And no, I haven't opened the bottle yet. Maybe in a few years.

I spent last Tuesday wandering around the offices of the North Carolina state legislature, buttonholing representatives and senators and making the case for removing the 6 percent limit on alcohol in beer. A number of folks in our group were somewhat apprehensive about this "event," but I was ready.

For starters, I prepared myself for lobby duty by cranking up a little Public Enemy in the stereo on the drive over. Forty minutes of It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold us Back and Fear of a Black Planet will get just about anyone pumped for a day at the state capitol. "Welcome to the Terrordome," indeed.

I'd been looking forward to Lobby Day for some time. There's no way I could pass up the chance to combine my passions for politics and beer. And while I am notoriously phoneaphobic (probably the main reason I never really followed up on my journalism degree), I had a blast talking to legislators in person. I'm not the most polished speaker, but I'm not afraid to bull into new situations and announce my presence with authority. By God, this law is a crock and it shall not stand!

Actually, almost all of my discussions were eminently cordial (even with folks who abjectly oppose our bill). There were no shouting matches, just the free exchange of ideas between elected representatives and the people who elected them. You know, kinda like they said in all those cheesy civics books.

Of course, we have a lobbyist--she's the one who organized our lobby day and organized our sorties to make sure we hit all of the offices. She's also the one who already had spoken to nearly all of the legislators over the past couple of years, paving the way for our relatively easy day of "talking beer."

The sad truth is that there's no way to get a law passed--even one as simple and obvious (as we see it) as ours--without a lobbyist. Nearly every penny that we've earned at fundraising events over the last years has ended up in her pocket, and if the law passes, she deserves as much credit as she's willing to take. We've built up an impressive state-wide grassroots group (check out the web site at http://www.popthecap.org), but she's been the one who has actually shepherded the bill. And now that it has been introduced and is receiving mostly favorable notices, she's working even harder to make sure it passes.

You'd be surprised how many legislators look at bills strictly along "what's in it for me?" lines. One legislator in a dry (no liquor) county agreed to support the bill, saying, "I own a few convenience stores. This ought to be a bonanza for me." An opponent of the bill is concerned that the presence of heavier beers will cut into his fortified wine business. Call it appalling or refreshing, most of the legislators I spoke with were quite up front about their personal interests in the bill. The notion that a law should be passed based on whether or not it would be good for the state is quaint, and in truth has never been much in vogue.

Politics are no more slimy today than they were 50 years ago. Indeed, I got a serious case of the heebie-jeebies looking at class portraits of the legislature from the 1940s, 50s and 60s. All white, of course, and almost always all men--except for the chief clerk, who always seemed to be a woman. We have a more diverse legislature these days--which is a very good thing--but money still rules the roost. And I guess it always will. I'm not being cynical or anything; I accept politics the way it is. I just want our bill to pass and to be able to buy a lot more of the beer I like. Then the legislators can go back to feeding at the trough of pork producers, banks and other cash-heavy benefactors. I'll be busy with a brew or few...maybe a Spaten Optimator, or some pleasantly whacked-out Belgian. That's how things really ought to be.

Jon Worley is somewhat scared by how much fun he had gladhanding politicians.