Sunrises are a thing of routine for me lately. Long has passed the time where I was “up with the sun,” however. Actually, I don’t think I was ever to that point. Having moved beyond the 8-5 grind into something that sports my nocturnal style more so, and getting home from my income source in the early mourning hours not quite ready to sleep, I get to watch the sun breach the endless fields of corn. Realizing most “normal” people don’t keep such a schedule, it affords me ample time alone to think about where I’m at. And quite literally, when living in geographical-less Central Illinois, you may as well be stuck in the middle of nowhere. Some times that is truly enjoyable. Other times I swear I can see the pitchfork from the little horned devil himself. But maybe that’s just my inner child sneaking a peek at reality.
So as the sun pulls back the shades from the sea of corn, I toast it with my first sampling of the Dogfish Head Festina Peche. Yes, a fruit beer. Yes, at 5am. Hey, it’s the closest I will get to my 12oz glass of fresh Florida OJ today and beats the hell out of a Guinness. Hopefully it pairs nicely with the pound of bacon (remind me to replace your bacon, Lisa, and thanks for forgetting it) I just prepared (can you tell I’m a single male yet?).
Oh… first off, I had to know it was coming. After my snail beer review, I got my ass handed to me by the lingering chest cold. It took 5 days to build, and 24 hours to kick my ass. So no doubt my sniffer was off that night. Probably my taste buds, too. That speaks volumes to the pronounced depth of flavor the Caracole delivered.
Well shit, bacon is burned and tastes like shit. I guess I subconscienciously gave the middle finger to my belly and rewarded my heart.
The beer pours cloudy. Surely an unfiltered beverage here. The nose is delicate and decidedly peachy, but certainly not overwhelming. With a toast in the direction of St. Louis and A-B (any chance the new Belgian owners can help the Missouri piss water?), the tasting commences. The nose definitely doesn’t prepare your taste buds for the sour, tart, punch in the tongue it quaffs as. Think Sour Patch Kids in the green apple flavor. Very little peach flavor. Dogfish Head (don’t you just love that name?) no doubt nailed the tartness of the old style BerlinerWeisse. The finish lingers for a bit, then tails off, but remains tart throughout. Quite an interesting brew; one that would be mighty refreshing on the back porch in 15 hours as the sun sets. With so many fruit beers out there, and none of which are typically my style, I’m not sure I’ll refresh my thirst with another Festina in my days, but it’s also as likely that I do what I can to track it down again someday. 3.5, possibly pushing 4 empty mugs.
Well, so much for enjoying my beer watching the sunrise. Partially because I drank the damn thing, but mostly because a rain squall arrived with the 5800 kelvin view. Not enough to actually water my landscaping, but enough to ensure Illinois remains as tropical as the Amazon for the day.
So burning calories on my way home from the bar Monday night (actually Tuesday morning for those of you who try to sleep like normal people - term used loosely as I don’t think there is anything normal about sitting in an office 5 days a week 8-5) it finally hit me. No, “it” wasn’t how I was going to save the world by not burning my share of the price-gouged oil. Nor was “it” gonna get Margaret to stop asking me for $2. “It” actually had a license plate (I think - I never did see it).
Now, I’ve dodged the ass-bombs of skunks with negotiations so key to my success that I should be included in all future peace talks, deftly avoided deers in the park with the agility of your grandma and her walker, caught lightning bolts from Zeus and tossed them back at him with nary a whimper, not to mention pushing cars from waterways too deep for Noah, but I was finally outdone. That’s right, the oil companies sent out a hit man in search of me. They had enough of my green living. After Jason started to commute by bicycle, I knew I made their most wanted list. But I think getting Lisa to follow suit was too much for them to accept. So merely 1 mile from home, after careful planning, they enacted their plan. With the precision of a SCUD missile, I was tracked down and run over.
Let me be the first to tell you, anytime your skull bounces across asphalt at 20mph, its not a good thing. For that matter, shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, your back… heck your hole f’n body… should generally avoid repeated impacts with roadways. Trust me here.
Dr. Skaggs decided to play the “good news or bad news first” game. Wasn’t that nice of him? I’m a good news type of guy, so I told him to keep the bad news to himself and deliver me the front page news of the “Happy Times” edition.
“You have no broken bones,” he gleefully reported to me. However, despite taking more photos of me than a rookie covering his first Playboy shoot, including poses which seemed eerily similar to the Captain Morgan’s pose (coincidence? I think not), they didn’t do any X-rays of my head. Granted, its mostly cobwebs up there, but anytime your skull looks like it’s ready to give birth to a grapefruit, you’d like to know what is going on up there. He was kind enough to tell me I didn’t need a CT Scan because my head injuries were not of concern (to him of course, not me). But he didn’t stop there. I am going in for a CT Scan anyway.
“But wait… you just told me I wasn’t getting a CT Scan…” I managed to say before getting cut off (I think he was tiring at my attempts at witty humor).
“Your chest X-rays showed a nodule in your lung that is consistent with lung cancer.”
I’m no rocket scientist, even after a night at a Holiday Inn Express, but I’m guessing that was the second half of the Good News, Bad News game.
I’ve shoved many a things into my mouth in my day. Sometimes by choice, other times on dares, but I hope to never repeat having Barium paste shoved into my trap. I wonder if it even helps on CT Scans or if the docs just wanna see how many people they can trick into swallowing that shit. I swear I saw them behind the closed doors snickering as they added another mark to their running tally.
So as I laid there watching this laser spin around me, despite the label that says “don’t look into the laser” (Do you think it is coincidence that as you read that label the laser is striking you directly in your retinas? Me neither…), I remember my odd chest cold in July. Suddenly it all makes sense. But lucky me, I’m a positive thinker, always thinking things happen for a reason. The failed attempts by the Middle East oil pirates to off me in turn will catch my lung cancer early enough so I can live long and green and give the middle finger to countless gas stations for years to come.
After what seemed like hours of waiting, but really was less than the hour long episode of the “World’s Strongest Animals” on the Animal Planet (who knew that a f’n beetle from Thailand was stronger than an elephant?), Skaggs delivered the news - calcified tumor of no concern. Whatever it was, my body healed and sealed all on its own. Good job lungs!
Following Tuesday’s saga Lisa went out and purchased a new car. She is going to still commute by bicycle (Shhhhh, don’t repeat that, Big Brother may still be watching), but she was thoughtful enough to accept responsibility for my hit -n- run “accident” and is trying to throw off my assailants.
Interesting side note that just occurred to me - 7 years ago today I did the best thing I’ve ever done in my life… received my SCUBA certification, and the stupidest thing I’ve ever done… got married.
Tags: Beer, Biking, General Musings, Humor, Scuba // 1 Comment »