Scattershooting About Jim Beam and Other Summer Fun

A sweet tune from Grantland, a great new site:http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/6769890/on-whiskey-grease.  I don't think I've had a snort of Jim Beam since high school.  Back then, it was our killer spirit of choice--we were much too low class and broke to afford Jack Black and other premium juice at the ignorant redneck/black/Hispanic school I attended.  The drill was to pour out half a can of Coke and replace said volume with JB, enjoy, and repeat until properly medicated for erratic driving down dark, county roads until you met an onward vehicle piloted by a kindred spirit.  Or, a Harris County deputy, or both.  In those days, run ins with the law brought hellacious tongue lashings, swift violence at the first sign of back talk (there was none), threats of loss of family reputation and ruin (as if we'd be disinherited from an oil field), and always the rendering of the contents of the pint (or half pint if the dollars were real tight) onto the ground or pavement right in front of you.  Notice, that nowhere were we cuffed, or arrested or catapulted into the legal system--the shit got settled right then and there.  A better system?  Maybe, maybe not but reprobates these days have to play by the rules, and their proud moms and dads get to hire attorneys.  Give me a call if you need the name of a good one.

The author of the article waxes over the taste of that last bottle of Jim Beam as the final tangible remembrances of his old man--not sure if I would have shared the last drop with a fellow from South America or South Dallas or wherever but that's his bidness.  For me, I've got a fair amount of stuff from my old man--his Kabar knife from the Corps ("I guarantee that this knife never killed a Jap"), some badges and other items from his days in the fire department, some guns--that sort of thing.  But, when I really, really want to step back in time--and I don't do this but every so often, I go out to my storage shed, to the back of a middle row of items I'll mostly never use again and find his old, homemade tackle box.  I make sure it's quiet and I'm alone and lean down when I open it--not to better see the old lures and hooks and weights of days gone by but to get that smell of salt water and reel grease and the Demetria of a time and place that no longer exists--the smell of memories--of wading into mud flats at 5AM, of old Coleman lanterns, of minnow buckets, and pith helmets and khakis and Johnson Sprites and stringers of Specks.  The frequent reminder, "Don't horse him!" when you were tied on to a big one, the crushing disappointment when you lost one at the end of a spectacular fight, and how grand you felt when you were praised in the company of grown men.  Those memories; there's a thousand of them and they stay mostly hidden and locked away but it's nice to know that I have a box in a shed out back that I can open for them to fill the sky for a while.  Like that flight of Rosetta Spoonbills that I never got tired of seeing.

Other items:
Some recommended viewing this summer--
1. "Swamp People" on the History Channel.  Ripping entertainment featuring mostly authentic Cajuns during the 30 day alligator season in Louisiana.  Subtitles are provided but if, like me, you're a product of generations of white trash breeding you'll understand 'em just fine.
2. "Deadwood" on HBO On Demand.  Watch it to remind yourself how good a series can be and reflect on the spectacularly bad decision to cease its production.  David Milch should be drawn and quartered.
3. Saw "Bridesmaids."   Some genuinely funny scenes and overall tolerable.  Much better than "Hangover II."

Politics:
I'm calling the 2012 election for Obama right now.  Unless, of course, Romney renounces the Mass. health exchange, endorses polygamy, calls for the legalization of weed, and orders the carpet bombing of France.  Then, maybe we have a ballgame.

I've been watching my diet and starting to work out again after multiple sessions of "Fun with your Orthopedic Surgeon" over the last six months.  Fell off the wagon briefly one Saturday evening--ended up at DQ and ordered not only a large cone but also a large vanilla shake.  Yes, I did that.  The shame of it all.  Worse yet, that was pretty much the highlight of my weekend.  Oh, except for the episode I had with a fairly sizable band of wasps.  Seems I was wrapping up some yard work when I opened a storage door that conveniently had a large wasp nest on the inside.  Turned rapidly (or semi-rapidly, I'm 53), lunged, tripped, rolled, staggered, ran, limped--it was all there including terrific gashes on my foot--the only reason the horde of wasps did not sting the ever loving shit out of me was because they were laughing their collective wasp asses off at the sight of Mr. Lawn Doofus performing his odd brand of interpretive dance.  Great fun all around including limping around for ten or so days.