American as apple pie.
Well, that’s pretty good. Apple pie is warm and delicious and the basis for one of my generation’s greatest dick jokes. But I think we can do better.

American as apple cider.
This is certainly a step in the right direction. Drinking apple cider conjures up heartwarming memories of New England autumns – going to the county fair, roaming the `ole pumpkin patch, bundling up against the brisk breeze. Maybe just one improvement can be made…

American as hard cider.
There we have it! Perfect! Take all those awesome apple connotations, swirl `em around with the autumnal remembrances, and then cast a fuzzy jubilation over the whole damn thang. Is there really anything more American than apple-cum-booze? Perhaps apple-cum booze, but that’s a whole different story, filled with tears and therapy sessions.

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I’ve been consuming alcoholic lemonade for longer than I’d like to admit. Well before I could appreciate a good brew, I was sippin’   on bottles of Baby’s First Buzz, laughing as my face got warm and everything just seemed better. Sure, it was a great gateway into the realm of inebriation, but once I was able to comprehend the majesty of stouts and porters, I didn’t look back.

Until now.

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Monsters are awesome.
Tigers are nature’s monsters.
Tigers are awesome.

It’s a syllogism celebrated by some of Planet Earth’s most respected intellectuals, from poet Edward Blake to renaissance man Charlie Sheen. There is both an inherent beauty and ruthlessness of the tiger which makes people like it. After all, tigers are powerhouses of muscle and controlled violence, demanding respect and rewarding only those most worthy.

So when I sauntered into the package store and saw a four-pack of Bengali Tiger, there was only one option: buy that muthafuggah and drink `em until everything’s funny. Even Gallagher.

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Say what you will about his latest exploits, but I believe that the good Arnold Schwarzenegger has done for the world far outweighs the bad. First, he pushed the limits of the human physique (albeit with steroids), proving that science can even be used to improve the doughy mounds of flesh that we call our bodies. Then Arnie took it upon himself to redefine action movies. Hell, just think of all the great Schwarzenegger flicks – The Terminator, Predator, Total Recall, Conan the Barbarian, Kindergarten Cop, True Lies, and so many more.

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I have no shame in admitting how I choose the beers I drink. Although I know that my tum-tum favors dark brews, porters and stouts, I often drink the beer with the most appealing name, packaging, or slogan. It’s shallow, I know. But hell, marketing campaigns are almost as irresistible as the executives that create them. Throw in a silly cartoon mascot or the right buzz-word and I’ll give your beer a shot.

Today, I’m drinking Revolutionary Rye Ale. The reason? Other than the fact that it’s brewed by the indomitable Sam Adams, I like the word revolutionary. From a language standpoint, I think the word is attractive both visually and auditorily. Six syllables. Every vowel represented, even the bastard-son Y. An adjective. Or a noun! What’s not to love about the word itself?

Moreover, I can’t help but fall victim to the connotations. And I’m not even talking about those of American history, the butt-whomping of King George III‘s dominion over the colonies. Although that was pretty sweet and inspired one of cinema’s greatest accomplishments.

No, I love the most stripped-down conception of revolution: a drastic upheaval of accepted traditions and dogmatic practices in favor of originality and progress. Why live according to yesteryear’s tired structures when new ones can be constructed? Why don’t we demolish the mausoleum and put a fucking museum over it? Why sail the seas when we can explore the stars?

Maybe I’m just dreaming of a world in which the collective consciousness continues to evolve. But I’m not alone. The Beatles knew what I’m rambling about. Hell, so did Pantera.

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Progress is a tricky concept to grasp and an even trickier one to execute. On the one hand, there is something to be said of tradition. Of the fact that there are those who have stood the test of time, proving their worth while the novelty of what’s considered in vogue crumbles into ephemeral ash.

It’s foolish to disregard the ones who help to set the sun.

However, we must also avoid becoming dogmatic adherents to yesteryear’s traditions. In dodging such an existential bullet, we remain receptive to new ideas. To the notion that the terrain explored by pioneers and voyagers may be worth investigating. There is an acknowledgment that all is not known and an exhilaration in trying to unearth what this may be.

In an ideal world, the Titans would help usher in the Olympians.

This dream is realized with Infinium. And that is why it is damn near perfect.

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Brunch is the most elusive member of la Famiglia Meal, leaving the house at the age of seventeen to follow Tesla on the road. A couple times a year, Brunch returns to do his laundry and borrow some cash. Without question, he’s the epitome of the prodigal son.

Today I was blessed by a visit from Brunch. Not only did he give me a big hug and recount his misadventures as a roadie, but he showed me his new tattoo. I never would have thought that Brunch would be blazoned with such a work of skin-art, but now I can’t picture him without it. Brunch has changed, irrevocably and for the better.

Brunch, as I learned today, is so much better when accompanied by a cold brew. Specifically, while eating my food I sipped on Clementine from the kind souls at the Clown Shoes Brewery.

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I used to love life.

For a time, I hated life. I became cynical, dwelling only on what was wrong. Reveling in negativity. Perpetuating my own bleak outlook and poor attitude.

Then I came the closest I’ve ever come again to dying.

I now love life again. Perhaps more than I ever had previously. Today is Friday – as such, I’m going to celebrate my brief time on the ride with a beer.

Please join me.

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It’s back, muthafugga, it’s back.

If you followed OL in the formative days, you know all about the glory that is the Friday Brew Review. If you’re new to this scene, let me clue you in: I like the taste of beer. I like the way it makes me feel. I like its ability to make my jokes funnier and women seem more attractive. So for your benefit, I will drink cold ones and describe the experience.

It’s pretty straight-forward.

So after a sabbatical that saw me averting death, deciding on a career, and becoming a more positive member of society, I’ve decided to bring back the Brew Review. Truthfully, I can’t guarantee that I’ll toss one up every week. But what I can promise is that when I do unholster the gun, I’m going to smoke every motherfucker in the saloon.

That’s right, I’m like a retired gunfighter, being called out of retirement for one more fucking showdown.

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I’m an American. I didn’t choose to be one, nor do I hate being one. But since my parents boned on this side of the Atlantic, I’m an American. As such, I’m required to uphold certain traditions. I always watch the Superbowl. I gorge on buffalo wings until I can’t stand. And I perpetuate a friendly rivalry with the British.

Ah, England — our kooky sister country right across the pond. The nation has exported so many wonders that have improved the quality of my little vacation on planet Earth. Iron Maiden hails from England. So does Mr. Bean. And Love Actually takes place in London. So there’s more than enough reason for us to be chums.

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