Hey, I see you’re gearing up for your first bottle share! That’s awesome, and you should be excited. You’re going to try some great, rare beers, including some you may never taste again, and get the chance to be a part of a very special, very passionate community.

That said, there are a few ground-rules. So read on, unless you want to become a Don’t Drink Beer meme.

This seems like a no-brainer, but even seasoned sharers occasionally trip up. In truth, this often happens with the best of intentions: someone was able to score, say, a single 12.7 oz bottle of Lost Abbey Veritas, and really, really wants to spread the love. Problem is, there are twenty-three people down in that rec room, and (whips out calculator) 0.55 ounces is barely enough to wet your tongue. No, not everyone is going to get to try everything—we’ll get to that in a second—but it’s your responsibility to make sure that each attendee who wants to taste your beer gets a fair shot.

It’s tough, because the exclusive nature of the very bottles we want to share is what sometimes makes it difficult to share them. Your best bet to is to get a rough idea of how many people are attending, and plan accordingly. At the same time, if 40 people are there, no one’s going to expect you to bring five bottles of that Veritas—though I’d appreciate it if you told me how you got them.

A good rule of thumb: if the beer you want to bring is 12.7 ounces or less, bring two. Coordinate with another attendee if you have to—a buddy and I each brought a single 12 oz bottle of Central Waters Black Gold to one gathering—but make it happen. Otherwise, enjoy it alone or with a loved one. Beer is for that too.

For the uninitiated, a “ticker” is someone who takes a Pokemon-like approach to craft beer. To this person, the endgame is to be able to say, “I had that beer” or “I had this beer,” nearly or completely devoid of any sense of community, history, or context. Imagine The Simpsons’ Comic Book Guy, Taneleer Tivan, and the griefer from South Park: Make Love, Not Warcraft all rolled into one neckbeard-y sadness loaf, and you start to get the idea.

Look, we all love trying new beers; that’s why bottle shares happen in the first place. But they also happen because we like getting together with friends, some of whom we don’t get to see very often otherwise, or meeting new people. These events are as much about camaraderie and sense of shared purpose as they are about the beers themselves; in our own way, we’re taking part in and contributing to a great artisanal pursuit. Respect it.

In short: DO graciously take your two-ounce pour of beer. Savor it while mingling with the other attendees, discussing either the beer or whatever else strikes your fancy.

DO NOT constantly slam your samples and ask what’s next, or get there late and try to wrangle a taste out of every empty by drizzling dregs into your glass. That’s not beer, that’s not protocol, and you’re terrible.

There’s definitely an undercurrent of latent economic intimidation when it comes to these things. It’s rarely spoken outright—or genuinely felt or implied, to be honest—but there tend to be haves and have-lesses when it comes to bottle share attendees. That guy that works a software job you don’t quite understand and whose Untappd check-ins read like the fever dream of an illicit love-zygote between Jean Van-Roy and Todd Haug…there’s one at every tasting and, truth be told, he’s probably a pretty nice guy. Probably.

So yeah, it can turn, post-haste, into a sugar-water dick-measuring contest—but only if you let it. Most likely, no one’s going to get all judge-y on you. Personal testimony: at my first bottle share four years ago, I was poor as hell and didn’t really know anyone at this thing. Dudes rolled in with Surly Smoke, Upland Fantasia, home-brewed brett ciders, and Firestone Walker XII. I pulled out a Three Floyds Behemoth barleywine I’d bought off the shelf that same day: great beer, but hardly a rare gem. We opened it third or fourth in, and our host said “Y’know, I forgot how great this is.”

Moral of the story: blow minds if you can. If you can’t, bring ‘em back to Earth.

This applies if you’re a sloppy drunk, a talky drunk, an angry drunk, or a quiet drunk. If you think you’re a fun drunk, it still applies, because you’re a sloppy drunk.

Any host that knows what he’s doing—hosts, please take note—is going to provide some “foundation” to soak up all that disparate booze you’ll be flinging down your gullet: I’ve seen homemade pizzas, cured meats and veggies, cheese plates, barbeque, and more. Take advantage of the hospitality, and remember to hydrate…if, y’know, you want to be invited to the next one.

Tasting groups and beer-buddy circles have the potential to smack of tree-house boys’ clubs, but I’ve generally found them to be pretty inclusive and welcoming to new faces, whether they’re new to craft beer or not. The rules are pretty simple: contribute, show interest and respect, and you’re golden. It’s not unlike joining a LARPing group; even the lingo is similar, as in “Pugachev’s Cobra deals +3 damage to Prairie Bomb when the conversation turns to attenuation.” I think.

That said, it’s understandable, and correct, that you might wonder about the propriety of bringing a friend or significant other to a bottle share—let alone your first one. The answer to this goes back to our first issue; that is, get a feel for what kind of event this is going to be. Did you get a personal invite to a gathering of less than a dozen people? The host will probably be cool with you bringing a buddy, but make sure to ask. Was it posted by the host on an open online forum? Go crazy.

…but don’t be an asshole. We’re all adults here, so if you don’t particularly like a beer that someone brought, don’t mention it to that person unless they ask you directly. And if they do, be candid but friendly about it. On the flip side, if someone doesn’t like the beer you brought, that’s fine too; you should be able to accept that and move on with your life. If not, well, you might be the kind of person who should read #2 again.