“Beer for Breakfast”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-17)

I always believe that the best newspaper columns seem to write themselves.

A recent Sunday morning in the Ice household proved this observation, once again. As I was making a pot of Java with our trusty Bunn coffeemaker, my notice was taken by a half-empty bottle of beer that glistened from between mustard and cayenne sauce in the refrigerator. It had been carelessly plopped into the bottom door tray, owing to a desire not to waste consumables of any kind. Even at the end of a night spent soothing overloaded brain cells, I retained the primal discipline of my forebears. Simply pouring the last two swigs of brew down the kitchen sink drain would have been unthinkable.

“Waste not, want not.” I had been told it was a quote from Benjamin Franklin.

Hours later, while making my morning beverage, the authenticity of this thought did not matter much. I reckoned whatever historical figure had uttered the phrase was spot-on with their logic. Still, the uncapped bottle looked out of place between unorganized condiments. This image stuck in my head as I worked to prepare a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon and a single burrito topped with cheese. Then, I felt the nudge of an unseen muse. Song lyrics began to form, over a simple guitar pattern typical of Country & Western music:

“Leftover High Life, in a bottle, oh so clear

Leftover High Life, my breakfast is beer

Leftover High Life, a taste of last night’s brew

Leftover High Life, the spotlight’s on you.”

As the eggs sizzled, I tapped my foot. The melody would not go away. I started to sing out loud, while standing in the kitchen. Then, I took out the beer bottle for a moment of contemplation. Bubbles weakly formed around the inner rim. I pondered the words in my head. The oldsters in my family had taught that waste was a sin. Did this include, I wondered, the waste of a good song lyric?

I found my iPhone and typed the lines into its “Notes” application. There was no need to risk the moment to an impulse of laziness. Though I was shy about composing a song that appeared to endorse the ill-advised habit of drinking beverage alcohol as a start to the day, I remembered it had been done before. “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” which was penned by Kris Kristofferson actually described having a ration of suds for breakfast. So while the action might be construed as reckless, it had some real foundation in blue-collar culture.

As I savored my meal, more words began to appear from the ether. Soon, I was at the computer, with a fresh cup of coffee:

“Leftover High Life, you humble splash of brew

Leftover High Life, pale and true

Leftover High Life, like me just set aside

Leftover High Life, this is your time to ride.”

News headlines flickered on my television, in the living room. Yet I was focused on the task of finishing my composition. Would this moment of inspiration provide cause to take out my guitar and record a quick take for You Tube? It did seem likely. In yonder days, I had created a basement studio which was suited for such visits from the muse. A soundproof room equipped with tape decks and assorted music hardware. My modern version was less true to the craft, but easier to employ. Simply, my smartphone propped up on the desk. Still, the approach remained intact. Making “art for art’s sake.” In the tradition of Country Music itself, telling a story. Or as a writer might term the habit, “acting as a reporter with guitar.” Stream-of-consciousness put on paper and into the memory chip of my handheld device.

Eventually, the morning had grown late. Text messages pinged my phone. The television blared ominously about Russian covert operations and partisan mayhem in Washington. My Black Lab had filled his belly on Kibbles & Bits seasoned with bacon drippings from breakfast. His snoring was audible, even from my spot in our home office. Daylight beamed through the kitchen curtains. But my focus remained clear:

“Leftover High Life, a guilty pleasure there

Leftover High Life, tell me, do I dare?

Leftover High Life, one more drink for me

Leftover High Life, come on, set me free.”

My choice for any recording would be an old Applause “roundback” acoustic waiting in a corner behind the bathroom door. I had acquired it from a trade in 1985, with a friend-of-a-friend who lived in Ashtabula. The journeyman axe was a budget version of an Ovation guitar. Though plain and unremarkable, it had become my favorite for recording demo tracks, over the years. I reckoned that literally hundreds of songs in my personal archives were plucked out on the instrument. Everything from “Four-Thirty in the Morning, Day Before Christmas Eve Blues” to “I’ve Got the Only iPhone in the Trailer Park.” I always felt connected to cosmic energy with that plucky plectrum in my hands.

From the nothingness, words continued to appear. Almost as if an old cowboy were speaking from beyond the grave. Or a weathered laborer with tuneful reverberations in his heart and calloused hands on the fretboard. I typed them out on the keypad of my laptop, anxious that they might escape before my brain cells could misinterpret their flight:

“Leftover High Life, love you like my old truck

Leftover High Life, never down on my luck

Leftover High Life, opened up but never flat

Leftover High Life, you know I’ll drink to that!”

The new day had grown to fullness when I was done writing. I felt a bit like the “sleeping prophet” Edgar Cayce. Almost as if I had slipped into in a trance. The television had switched over to decorating tips and recipes. My breakfast was done, but those beer remnants were still in the refrigerator. It was too early to seriously consider finishing off the last of the golden beverages. Too early in the real world, one not liberated by song or rural culture. But in the clairvoyant state of redneck inspiration, my bottle-and-a-half could be viewed differently.

They were the keys to a cultural wormhole which connected sane and safe banality to the rowdy, reality of a wordslinger and tunesmith, carrying prose for hire:

“Leftover High Life, sweet like mountain rain

Leftover High Life, you get me through the day

Leftover High Life, sunshine on the dew

Leftover High Life, I put my faith in you.”

I closed my laptop after the last line was finished. Once again, a column had written itself. Now, after the adventure in print, it was time for refreshment. “Miller Time” at last.

Questions or comments about “Words on the Loose” may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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Published weekly in the Geauga Independent