American Idiot

Rising from bed, sober and skittish, I brew some coffee. The fog of the night clears and my heads fills up with random thoughts. Thoughts that have no bearing on anything that is, or will, be going on throughout the day. First day off the spring break (I'd say from hell but I put myself there) and the weird shit just keeps on coming.

The black pot is percolating and it smells like Hills Bros medium roast. Well at least the guy on the label is wearing a fucking tie. Great advertising. I open the fridge and immediately think of the book by P.J. O'Rourke, The Bachelor Home Companion. Not because I consider myself a bachelor but because the inside of the refrigerator looks like what I once thought every average Ameircan family would have. Notice "average"

It was ridiculous. At eight in the morning, nonetheless. The sardines are showing me the middle finger—they with the union now. The ketchup is sitting and smoking a cigarette. Colonel Saunders is staring at me from his giant red and white and blue bucket of chicken. All before my coffee. Because when I think about home I think that every family needs to have ample amount of KFC leftover chicken stinking up the atmosphere, while the gravy, which turned into scary globules by now, is ready to sing Ain't That a Kick in the Head. The Colonel is a scary little bugger isn't he?



Sing it Dean.

But I'm far from going to sleep and grinning.

But the thoughts don't stop and the regular circus begins. I'm at the gas station having difficulty deciding between a brand of cigarettes. Marlboro's I think. But I always smoke Marlboro's. Variety. Newports are good. Get Newports. Fuck Newports. I will buy them and then loathe them.

You know you smoke too much when the gas station clerk has to help you out of your car in walking the few feet without wheezing. I'm there so often she waves a pack of Marlboro's at me.

"Newports today," I say. I think of Tom Green. Green. The cigarettes are green. I have a Graham Greene book in my bag. The Heart of the Matter.

Who is going to finish all that chicken?

Paper did I forget the paper? Where is the fucking newspaper! Ok I got it. Oh Wow...It's going to rain and I don't have an umbrella.

Global warming the glaciers are melting.

Pot before Supreme Court again.

Illegal aliens are getting pissed off about the bill as they should. France riots and we peacefully march. Jon Stewart onto something.

At a moment like this someone needs to say "You're not going squirrelly on me are you?"

Wow Newports are not that bad.

::cough::

Newports suck!

Breakfast what about breakfast? What about it? Why not chicken? Fuck chicken! I just had a minty Newport. That's the cure for the Avian Flu. A pack of Newports.

Fuck is the dog drinking that blue toilet water? I hope not. She can't. She's smarter than that. But thirst is thirst. I'd never drink the water. But she's a dog.

SHIT!!! THis fucker almost ran into me. Fucking bastard! That's how people die on the streets of Chicago—worried if the family pet is quenching its thirst in the WC.

Water closet. Water closet.

By the time I get to the office I am sure that madness is starting to creep up my back with a razor sharp steak knife.

Ain't that a kick in the head. My head keeps spinning.

Ain't that a kick in the head

Welcome you've reached the winter of our discontent.

Honk This

Sometimes these ideas come out of nowhere which is why they are bad ideas in the first place. I'm working on some project about the Goose Island brewery in Chicago. Naturally the big brewmasters are "too busy." So I get home from one of my journalistic excursions and shoot up to the local beer factory and grab a twelve case of this fucking Honker's Ale. Now I don't know about you...but when the word "honk" is on the label I get cautious. Let's just say I've seen too many kids get DUI's. Fucking honkers! But anyway.

After staring at the bottle for about an hour, appreciating the label and all that good jazz (after all labeling is an important part in the craft brewing business) I down a couple of these fermented geese.

It's an ale - and for an ale it's great. It's really tasty and as Carlin would say "tangy too." But after a couple of these honkers I knew I was getting honked. Not drunk, just fucked over by the illusion of a premium product. Yeah the brew tastes great. But I don't feel anything. It's like 4.5% or some shit which leads me to believe that this is one of those brews made by beer snobs.

You can taste the hops and nutmeg and all that shit. You can taste someone's nuts.

But I'm bitter because I'm drinking "A smooth drinkable English Bitter for the drinkers who want more from their beer."

I'm looking forward to tomorrow after drinking many of these cloudy amber colored ales. The irony would be if, after I would wake from my slumber, and as the ale traverses up my neck, down to the beak, I would honk into the shiny toilet water. Honkers Ale!

But I'm bitter. I love the ale. It's different than the shit I'm used to drinking. It's a honking mile away from Natty Ice. And that's a good thing. They should microbrew me a batch and call it Honky's Brew. It would make sense. I'd buy it. I'd drink it.