Sometimes a man has to admit something about himself that he really does not want to admit. That's the way I feel about craft beers. When the topic gets around to craft beers— which it inevitably does—I am left completely out in the cold. I have no idea what Tröeg's Mad Elf Ale tastes like. I couldn't tell Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA from Ommegang Rare Vos if my life depended on it. Is Golden Walrus Imperial Pilsner brewed in Delaware, Prague or Loch Ness?

You got me.

It doesn't help that I don't drink. I used to drink a long time ago, but back then we didn't talk about beer. We merely drank it. We might occasionally discuss wine—especially if we were in France—but beer wasn't viewed as a suitable topic for conversation. Beer was simply an ingenious device one used to get hammered.

Now I constantly find myself frozen out of conversations because I literally know nothing about craft beers. I go to a restaurant in Brooklyn and the sommelier des bières saunters over to the table to discuss Estrella Damm Daura and König Ludwig Weissbier. I stop by a pizza chain in Mount Laurel, N.J., and my best friend spends 15 minutes discussing the marvels of Castelain Two Brothers Diversey & Lill(e) with the waiter.

Then the maître de la Jersey bière appears out of nowhere and rhapsodizes about Goose Island Matilda and Stillwater Existent for another 15 minutes. The subject eventually turns to Southern Tier Iniquity and Flying Dog Underdog Atlantic Lager, as it so often will in pizza chains. Meanwhile, I sit there, meekly sipping my Diet Coke. I am an outcast at life's rich fest.

I used to be able to hold up my end in barroom conversations, because I knew a lot about sports. "What'd you think of the Cowboys running a double reverse on fourth and one Sunday?" I would ask. "Did you know that Barry Bonds has a career on-base percentage of .444?" "OK, which brothers hold the record for most career home runs? If you said 'the DiMaggios,' you guessed wrong." But that was back in the day when people in bars talked about sports. Now they talk about beer. Craft beer.

Lately I seem incapable of escaping from the kraftbierkulturkampf. I go joy riding to admire the autumn foliage and get stuck in an hourlong traffic jam just south of the Bear Mountain Bridge. Why? Craft-beer crowds on the way to Oktoberfest. The martini lounge directly underneath my office folded its tent and has now morphed into a classy craft-beer establishment. My son hits me up for a couple of benjamins so he can buy his friends a round of Obermeister Faust Dummkopf at some glitzy craft-beer saloon.

Last Sunday, on a trip to Philadelphia, I happened upon a local magazine called Philly Beer Scene. It looked like Vanity Fair, with such riveting articles as "Viva La Fungi: Beer's Most Important Ingredient" and " 'Beeradelphia': Finally!" I want people to cut this out right away. I don't want to pull into a small town in the nation's breadbasket and come upon a magazine called Peoria Beer Scene or Redneck Riviera Beer Scene or Coeur d'Alene Beer Scene. I want the madness to stop. I think craft-beer mania has replaced golf as something that conniving executives dreamed up. That way, they can cut their deals in private and freeze out women with cats who listen to Fresh Air, teetotalers like me and even standard-issue winos, none of whom are conversant with their arcane patois.

I have an 86-year-old friend who fought against the Japanese in the Second World War and later embarked on a mysterious but highly amusing career as a small-town Republican kingmaker. When a bunch of us go out to a steakhouse or a fancy restaurant, most of the guys order something like Magic Hat Burn Pile or Evolution Lucky 7 Porter or Smuttynose IPA. Some may even order Pomeranian Kilt Lager or Bewildered Catfish Fourth Voyage or Penguin Island Big Hat Latvian Porter DMX.

My friend Jack orders a Bud Light, and then another Bud Light, and then another Bud Light. He won't even go as far as out on the limb as a Samuel Adams.

Jack Calvey is my hero.