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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