Tuesday, January 2
The Anti-Communist who rides the same train home as me was drinking an
oil can of Molson XXX yesterday. I call him "The Anti Communist"
because he doesn't hide the fact that he hates communists. Rather,
he's pretty vocal about it. And (unless he's been drinking in the
morning too) it isn't just the beer talking. No, he really hates
communists. And that's a fact.
Now, I've talked about the evening-commute-drinkers before, even going
so far as to mention that there are two kinds of drinkers during the
afternoon rush hour. One is the beer drinker, having a relaxing
beverage on the trip home. And the other is the hard liquor guy,
pouring off mini-bottles into a coke cup hastily purchased in Penn
Station. And it isn't hard to figure out which of these people are
normal and which of them have deep-rooted alcohol issues that they no
longer mind sharing with the general public at 6:00 pm on a Wednesday.
But The Anti-Communist represents a third kind of rush hour lush, one
I had not encountered before.
Here is a man, a man with an aversion to Marx yes, but a man who works
like any other. And save for the fact that he didn't give up his
Commi-hating ways back in '89 with the rest, there isn't anything
particularly unique about him. At least that is what I thought until I
saw his choice of beer.
"Molson XXX" is an embarrassing thing to type into a search engine,
but in doing so I found that Molson XXX is brewed in Canada and only
in the past few years has it even become available in the US.
Reportedly this was "due to popular demand." Molson XXX is sold in
bottles or in a 25 ounce, all-black, oil drum-looking can. It's 7.3%
alcohol by volume and according to reviews I read at beeradvocate.com,
mates undrinkability with getmefuckedupness quite nicely. Or as the
reviewers on that site put it,
"It is nothing more than malt turned into alcohol."
"It got me pretty drunk quick... and I didn't like how present the
alcohol taste was."
"In all fairness, comparing this beer to the other common Malt Liquors
around here, this one is less vile and even stomachable compared to
the rest."
"Like if Corn Nuts had an aluminum flavor instead of the usual ranch
or original."
Essentially, we're talking about twenty-five ounces of golden, corn
nut-flavored, fire-water wrapped in a mean-looking can and labeled
with a symbol that's synonymous with danger and sex at the same time.
Molson XXX.
And The Anti-Communist. So there he is, standing in front of the
sliding refrigerator doors at the bodega across 32nd street from Penn
Station. His train departs in 7 minutes and with his drinker's
physique and 44 year-old legs he knows it's a solid 6 minute, winded,
half-jog to the NJ Transit tracks. He has virtually no time to make
this choice. But he needs something to drink and he needs it now. He
knows the smell of vodka or whiskey would stick on his breath straight
through dinner and his wife wouldn't let him hear the end of that,
especially since the kids are at home all day during the holidays this
time of year. Plus, that's the hard stuff, and he'll be damned if he's
turning that corner. No, he doesn't need the hard stuff. Just a
come-down after a long day.
On the other end are the dirty-water beers. Coors Light. Bud Light.
Miller Lite. Yeah, they come in 16 ounce cans and he could always
swing for two of them, but he doesn't have pockets deep enough and
carrying on extra beers never seemed right. The other riders would
wonder about a man with two beers. Plus, they taste like dirty water
and barely lull his evening stress to levels low enough with which to
handle those damn kids of his. No, the dirty water won't do.
But then he sees it. It's big. It's black. It's mean. And he just felt
his peter move a little when he looked at the can. And his peter
hasn't moved in months! Molson XXX.
That one will pack the punch. That one will taste like something. That
one will fit just right in my hand. And yet, he'll still be drinking
beer. Just beer. And he can tell that his wife he just had beer on the
train. Only beer. And only one single, lousy beer, to boot. And all of
the other people on the train won't think anything of a man drinking a
beer on the train. That'll be just about right. Molson XXX.
That's how it happens, I sure. That's how The Anti-Communist first
found Molson XXX and that's why he still drinks it to this day. Sure,
it turns his face the same color of red that a sting-ray barb to the
cheekbone might, but it's just a beer. Just one single, lousy beer.
And it's the kind of beer John Wayne might have been drinking had he
rode the train home. Or Teddy Roosevelt. Or Reagan!
And they may say that Canada is a socialist country, but the
Anti-Communist doesn't mind. No, he doesn't mind drinking a beer
brewed in the great white north because he knows better. He knows
Canada is a constitutional monarchy. And he knows that all hell will
freeze into a hockey rink before Queen Elizabeth, God bless her,
shakes hands with one of them communists. Down with Communists. And up
with Molson XXX.
Oh, and Happy Boxing Day.
oil can of Molson XXX yesterday. I call him "The Anti Communist"
because he doesn't hide the fact that he hates communists. Rather,
he's pretty vocal about it. And (unless he's been drinking in the
morning too) it isn't just the beer talking. No, he really hates
communists. And that's a fact.
Now, I've talked about the evening-commute-drinkers before, even going
so far as to mention that there are two kinds of drinkers during the
afternoon rush hour. One is the beer drinker, having a relaxing
beverage on the trip home. And the other is the hard liquor guy,
pouring off mini-bottles into a coke cup hastily purchased in Penn
Station. And it isn't hard to figure out which of these people are
normal and which of them have deep-rooted alcohol issues that they no
longer mind sharing with the general public at 6:00 pm on a Wednesday.
But The Anti-Communist represents a third kind of rush hour lush, one
I had not encountered before.
Here is a man, a man with an aversion to Marx yes, but a man who works
like any other. And save for the fact that he didn't give up his
Commi-hating ways back in '89 with the rest, there isn't anything
particularly unique about him. At least that is what I thought until I
saw his choice of beer.
"Molson XXX" is an embarrassing thing to type into a search engine,
but in doing so I found that Molson XXX is brewed in Canada and only
in the past few years has it even become available in the US.
Reportedly this was "due to popular demand." Molson XXX is sold in
bottles or in a 25 ounce, all-black, oil drum-looking can. It's 7.3%
alcohol by volume and according to reviews I read at beeradvocate.com,
mates undrinkability with getmefuckedupness quite nicely. Or as the
reviewers on that site put it,
"It is nothing more than malt turned into alcohol."
"It got me pretty drunk quick... and I didn't like how present the
alcohol taste was."
"In all fairness, comparing this beer to the other common Malt Liquors
around here, this one is less vile and even stomachable compared to
the rest."
"Like if Corn Nuts had an aluminum flavor instead of the usual ranch
or original."
Essentially, we're talking about twenty-five ounces of golden, corn
nut-flavored, fire-water wrapped in a mean-looking can and labeled
with a symbol that's synonymous with danger and sex at the same time.
Molson XXX.
And The Anti-Communist. So there he is, standing in front of the
sliding refrigerator doors at the bodega across 32nd street from Penn
Station. His train departs in 7 minutes and with his drinker's
physique and 44 year-old legs he knows it's a solid 6 minute, winded,
half-jog to the NJ Transit tracks. He has virtually no time to make
this choice. But he needs something to drink and he needs it now. He
knows the smell of vodka or whiskey would stick on his breath straight
through dinner and his wife wouldn't let him hear the end of that,
especially since the kids are at home all day during the holidays this
time of year. Plus, that's the hard stuff, and he'll be damned if he's
turning that corner. No, he doesn't need the hard stuff. Just a
come-down after a long day.
On the other end are the dirty-water beers. Coors Light. Bud Light.
Miller Lite. Yeah, they come in 16 ounce cans and he could always
swing for two of them, but he doesn't have pockets deep enough and
carrying on extra beers never seemed right. The other riders would
wonder about a man with two beers. Plus, they taste like dirty water
and barely lull his evening stress to levels low enough with which to
handle those damn kids of his. No, the dirty water won't do.
But then he sees it. It's big. It's black. It's mean. And he just felt
his peter move a little when he looked at the can. And his peter
hasn't moved in months! Molson XXX.
That one will pack the punch. That one will taste like something. That
one will fit just right in my hand. And yet, he'll still be drinking
beer. Just beer. And he can tell that his wife he just had beer on the
train. Only beer. And only one single, lousy beer, to boot. And all of
the other people on the train won't think anything of a man drinking a
beer on the train. That'll be just about right. Molson XXX.
That's how it happens, I sure. That's how The Anti-Communist first
found Molson XXX and that's why he still drinks it to this day. Sure,
it turns his face the same color of red that a sting-ray barb to the
cheekbone might, but it's just a beer. Just one single, lousy beer.
And it's the kind of beer John Wayne might have been drinking had he
rode the train home. Or Teddy Roosevelt. Or Reagan!
And they may say that Canada is a socialist country, but the
Anti-Communist doesn't mind. No, he doesn't mind drinking a beer
brewed in the great white north because he knows better. He knows
Canada is a constitutional monarchy. And he knows that all hell will
freeze into a hockey rink before Queen Elizabeth, God bless her,
shakes hands with one of them communists. Down with Communists. And up
with Molson XXX.
Oh, and Happy Boxing Day.
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