Three Rules: Conquering Your Hangover

Your eyes take a minute to adjust to the cruel sunlight blazing through the window. More than a few grunts of discomfort as you right yourself from your slumber on the living room floor. Eyes burn, stomach rumbles, mouth filled with moss. You have a hangover.

This awful beast known as a hangover is one of the unfortunate side effects of having a drink or ten, and we are all familiar with it to some degree or another. There are myriad guides for how to get over one, but they almost always begin with the advice of not drinking so much. This, dear reader, is simply not an option. There are some general prevention tips I have picked up and use to some extent, such as the “Sinatra Rule” of having a glass of water between every alcoholic drink you consume. (I generally start after round 6) Others would have you drink water and take aspirin before bed, still other well-intentioned fools say to only have one drink per hour. Some of these preventive measures have merit, but most only exist to take up space on the Interweb.

For the purpose of this article, I am assuming that you are afflicted with a true-blue five-star hangover. This is one of those hangovers that comes with three hours of sleep and no less than five receipts for you to make sense of. Upon waking you find yourself with a pain running up your left side that feels like you had a stroke. If this hangover had formed in the Gulf of Mexico a state of emergency would be declared before it even made landfall and Jim Cantore would know it would be worse than some terrible ancient warlord and used his executive power to name it Agamemnon. You had a great night is what I'm saying.

One final caveat before we begin: this is my personal hangover regimen. Nearly everyone has their own cure that they swear by, but they all suck. Use mine and you will conquer this hangover and make it clean your house.

The first order of business in combating a hangover is to fill your belly. Water is key, even more so than food. Just in case you aren't aware, one of the biggest factors in a hangover is dehydration. After you have drunk the second of your many glasses of ice water, it is time to shift your focus to food. The English get a lot of crap for their terrible food, but they know how to have a king-hell breakfast. I don't generally go for the full English breakfast, but it is certainly one to cure a hangover.

My personal preferred breakfast is scrambled eggs with salsa, sausage patties and bacon, biscuits and gravy, and perhaps some potatoes. The key here is to eat greasy food, whether you cook it yourself or not. As a result pretty much anything at the Waffle House will help cure what ails you. Whether or not I go all out and cook the fantastic spread above, I will always have the bacon and eggs. I'm a big fan of routine, and that's what I eat pretty much every morning. The twist for the hangover breakfast is that I put on Guy Clark's album Some Days the Song Writes You, not only because it's a great album, but because “The Coat” comes on as I sit down and it's just got that hungover feel to it.

There are those who advocate the hair of the dog method of hangover cure, and from time to time I have engaged this tactic. However, I have found it mostly useless before lunch. If you decide on this method I would suggest using only lighter and simple alcohols. My few successes have been Corona and eggs, or leftover Jameson with fresh ice cubes and Meet the Press.

The second step for dealing with the incessant pounding in your head is to relax for a few hours. This is the time to find a couch and lay on it for a while. In a future post we will discuss the finer points of Hangover Theatre, but suffice it to say that the movie shouldn't be complex, or loud, or even outrageously funny. Although the title would lead you to initially believe it perfect for the job, The Hangover is one of the worst movies to watch when you are actually hungover – it's just too damn funny. The movie you're looking for is the kind of movie they used to play on TBS until they got all weird and became the Tyler Perry channel and dropped the Braves for those ridiculous BoSox. You're based in Atlanta for Christ's sake! Spaceballs is a good hangover movie – funny, but not gut-bustingly so after the first viewing. You can try and take my man card for this, and I will beat you to a bloody stump with your own legs, but I also like Julie and Julia for this. It's simple, it has food, and it has Meryl Streep so you can all just go to hell. It's Complicated is also nice.

If you don't feel quite like a movie you can always fall back on music to help you through, but it's not the music you think. Apart from while I'm cooking and eating breakfast, I'm not wanting music with lyrics and themes and anything that might require me to think. What I like is Aphex Twin, especially Richard D. James Album, and any of the Selected Ambient Works series are great for a hangover. Some of the Aphex Twin records are a little too far out there and strange for this fragile state, but this type of electronic/ambient music really helps me with the healing process. Old Tom Waits will be a great choice as well, but nothing newer than Franks Wild Years.

You could also read a book if you wanted, but I never have since I couldn't concentrate enough to pay attention, which is the reason for the easily digested hangover movie. If you do choose to read, I would suggest some simple, paint-by-numbers novel by the likes of John Grisham or James Patterson. Most of the greats are simply too heavy for this operation. Can you imagine reading The Road hungover? No thanks, I already feel like death twice warmed over, I don't need a book where that is every day life.

Now that you've spent a good portion of the day being lazy and feeling sorry for yourself, it's time to act like a grownup. No later than 2:00 you should be pulling yourself together and trying to unravel the story that your receipts are telling you in order to brag on Monday about what you did on Saturday. How did I spend $80 at the last bar? Why did we keep going from one side of town to the other? Surely I did not drink a dozen rail whiskeys by myself.

This is also a good time to get your house back in order. If for some horrible, unforseen circumstance you didn't grab some Waffle House before you came home, you likely cooked something so that your stomach was settled and you didn't throw up. As a result your kitchen is a wild landscape of dirty dishes and beer bottles. Go ahead and deal with this now. You are already miserable so cleaning won't make your day any worse, and with any luck you will run into a neighbor as you throw a garbage bag full of bottles into the dumpster and can acknowledge them with little more than a grunt from your sore throat you got by singing Bohemian Rhapsody at top volume during the cab ride home. This has the effect of cementing your neighbors suspicions and ensure they don't pester you to come over for a barbecue.

As an honorable mention, I must bring up the specter of exercise. Obviously with a hangover of this magnitude a workout is out of the question. However, when you have a stage-2 or a light stage-3 hangover, half an hour of vigorous exercise can work wonders. If you are traveling and find yourself in a hotel with a steam room, use it. Those things are just the tits after you make a run on the continental breakfast.

In conclusion, you can choose to treat your hangover as a curse, or as a cleansing experience as the good Modern Drunkard advocates. Obviously I choose the latter. I have been lucky enough to have developed the fortitude of liver so that I rarely get hangovers more than 3 or 4 times a year, regardless of intake. For myself, it is more an issue of sleep as I am a morning person and can rarely sleep past 7:00 no matter when I finally passed out. However, when I do come down with a hangover I embrace it. They remind me that I'm human, and to quote the Modern Drunkard again, it's not all rum and games.

Frank Nichols makes Ron Burgandy look like a classless hobo

Top Five Albums of Half of 2012

Just want to start out by saying that there are mine, Chris Miller, favorite albums of the year thus far. Andrew may have an entirely different list. I don't know if he'll be doing one. Go ask him yourself, I'm not his fucking biographer.

The first half of 2012 has been very solid in terms of releases, and only figures to get better with the likes of Hellbound Glory and Adam Lee & The Deadhorse Sound Company still on the way. I figured, like every other music blogger out there, that I'd throw out my favorites of the lot. Going with the tried and true "Top 5" format, don't be looking for reviews here. I've gotta go to work in an hour and don't have time to be professional. I'll just throw my favorites out there, with a little blurb underneath, then you can discuss amongst yourselves. Alright, enough bullshit, lets get on with it.

HONORABLE MENTIONS
Kara Clark-Southern Hospitality
Owen Mays & The 80 Proof Boys- Nobody Loves You When You're Down
Stevie Tombstone- Slow Drunken Waltz
Tom Vandenavond- Wreck Of A Fine Man
Joseph Huber- Tongues Of Fire
Jackson Taylor & The Sinners- Bad JuJu
Bob Wayne- Til' The Wheels Fall Off
Ray Wylie Hubbard- The Grifter's Hymnal
Shooter Jennings- Family Man


5. T. Junior- Man In Gray

At number five on the list we've got longtime friend of the show T.Junior with his first solo EP "Man In Gray". The former Honky Tonk Hustlas front man brings seven, five brand new, dreary tales of southern doom and despair on this gem.

4. James Hunnicutt- In Full It Shall Be Paid

Coming in a number four we've got the most versatile man in roots music, James Hunnicutt. This collection of demos from 2004-2010 is my favorite release from James' catalog, and that's saying something.

3. Marty Stuart- Nashville, Vol. 1: Tear The Woodpile Down

Marty Stuart is arguably the most important person keeping the spirit of true country music alive. This album features a duet with Hank III where they do my favorite Hank Williams song "Pictures From Life's Other Side". Plus, Marty is playing with a goddamned jungle cat on the cover. Cool points.

2. McDougall- A Few Towns More

From my neck of the woods up in the great northwest we've got McDougall coming in at number two. I've never had more fun drinking alone than the other night when I cranked this fucker up to eleven and danced with lady bourbon.

1. Willie Nelson- Heroes

 















This is the best album Willie has made since the mid 1980's. Simply fucking fantastic.

Drinking and Movies

Whatever petty differences the fans of Blue Ribbon Radio may have, I think it is safe to assume that we all love drinking and movies. If you have been at this drinking business long enough to be associated with Blue Ribbon Radio you should have developed a sense that not every drink is proper for every occasion. There are times when nothing but a good dark beer can cure what ails you, and other times when your world seems good and right and true a protracted evening of bourbon is in order. Just as in normal life, your drinks should reflect the movie you are watching, especially if your goal is to drink with the movie.

Most movies worth watching will have some sort of easily discerned code or guide for how or what you should drink. I don't mean drinking games, as they tend to punish those who are good at them by forcing them to remain sober. On top of this already heinous state of affairs you still have a movie to watch. However, there are some movies where this code is not so obvious and you may have to do a spot of thinking to figure out what your proper drink is.

As a basic guideline, the different genres of movies lend themselves to different drinks. For example, you would never dream of drinking a Chardonnay while watching a Western, and it would seem more than a little strange to pound the blog's namesake beer during a viewing of Schindler's List. Some movies are kind enough to have a very specific drink for you to consume, but others don't.

One of my personal favorite genres is film noir / hardboiled detective. If you drink anything other than rye or bourbon while watching a movie based on Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett you should just be ashamed of yourself. By that same token, it seems that beer is the perfect drink for a good action movie. These movies are testosterone-fueled escapism and beer complements this well. Action movies are best watched with several friends, and often whiskey is too heavy and intoxicating to keep you interested in John McClane's struggle without having you completely ignore the movie in favor of seeing who can do more one-handed pushups. The best example of this is the movie Shoot 'Em Up. By any critical standard it was a terrible movie, but this doesn't account for the gigantic awesome factor. It wasn't meant for and Oscar, but for men to gather round and drink beer and watch absolutely insane gunfights.

On a different wavelength, there are those movies which have a definite and concrete connection with drinking. These are movies where your protagonist has his drink, and by God he's going to have it whatever the cost. These are movies like The Big Lebowski, with Lebowski's White Russian. Blue Velvet lends itself to PBR, but I prefer to drink the Heineken. Full disclosure - I absolutely loathe PBR. I understand that I write for Blue Ribbon Radio, but it is just terrible beer and I cannot abide it one damn bit. Although I said earlier than rye or bourbon is the only thing appropriate for film noir, the one exception is The Long Goodbye, when you should drink a gimlet - “Half gin and half Rose's Lime Juice. Nothing else.”

These types of movies tend to be some of the best movies for both drinking and watching. Even if you take drinking out of the equation, God forbid, these are movies that bring people together. These are the movies where everyone watching it can quote every line. Not surprisingly this makes it hard to introduce new people to the movie, as nobody wants to watch a movie for the first time with some asshole who can't stop quoting it. Movies like these are movies that make family. I will never forget the memories I can't remember from High School of getting drunk and watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Movies like Barfly, Withnail and I, and Casablanca will forever connect drinking with watching movies. The connections are so strong that they develop cults, as in the case with The Big Lebowski. The simple act of having a drink while you watch a movie is so pleasurable and grounding that I cannot really manage without one. To plug my other article on “Dressing for Drinks,” this is another one of the reasons why I wear blazers – pockets for flasks. Six ounces of Wild Turkey is a lifesaver when you've been drug against your will to a Pixar movie on a Sunday afternoon in a dry county.

Frank Nichols continues to bring a little bit of class into our otherwise awful world.

Why do we drink?

The title of this blog is no doubt a question any wandering internet adventurer would inevitably wonder about those of us here at Blue Ribbon Radio (and the majority of those that we call friends, followers, comrades, and cheap imitators, as well).  It's a question that I've personally found myself pondering over the last few months as my drinking has taken a turn for the clinically alarming since March.   Admittedly, asking why we all drink is about as open-ended as asking "Why is the air?," but I am here to address my own personal perspective on the matter.

There is no doubt that the consumption of alcohol and exploring life and it's various adventures under its influence is a fundamental part of what we do here at Blue Ribbon Radio.  The show itself was named, not after a kitchy nod to Americana, but in fact after our very favorite beer.  In fact, the first show I appeared as a co-host on, Chris and I had consumed something in the neighberhood of a fucking goddamn lot of PBR before we started drinking  (the human figure is somewhere in the neighborhood of a case each in about 7 hours, but we can't remember, because this is the night we discovered "Mets-Tits" and that has taken precedence in our spotty conjoined consciousness ever since).

As for myself (and I'm sure I'm speaking for Chris as well), my own experience grew out of the typical high-school partier/drinker phase that most of us go through.  I was fortunate enough to have an affinity for academia, and could afford to partake in the destructive behaviour that my brothers engaged in with literally ZERO consequences.  I graduated with a full scholarship to the university of my choice and a suspended truancy charge because of my obscene amount of absences thanks to my countless hangovers and ruthless "give-no-fucks" spirit.  In short, I left high-school on the verge of what our normative cognitive maps would consider a drinking problem, and had never faced a single consequence for my behaviour.  (It of course would be a terrible oversight to not mention, and now's as good a time as any, that I do come from a purely Scotts-Irish family that traces it's heritage back to the Irish exodus from North Caroline to Alabama in the early 18th century... To put it simply, drunk is in my blood).

This background obviously lends itself to a propensity for substance (mostly alcohol, but let's not forget all of the other chemical delights that science has brought us) abuse.  College was no different, and really only upped the ante with the introduction of more complex chemical compounds introduced into the whole affair.  It was during these times that I learned that life really was okay after all so long as you knew a shady hood-rat named Snowball to sell the okay to you in little baggies.

Unfortunately, along with a penchant for scholarly endeavours comes a collective expectation of success from every member of your white trash family as well as every moderately successful middle-class twat that you ever spent time with growing up.  When you happen to be the exception as I was (a dog-dick poor kid with a relatively trashy upbringing but inexplicable academic abilities) it's just understood that you're going to go on and do something slightly more lucrative than giving old-fashioneds in the stairwell  of your illegal loft for more pills.  This pressure is not without its consequences, which of course manifested itself in the form of further substance abuse, but a critical tipping point was on the horizon.  I only gave a fuck about what I was studying because I thought it was interesting.  However, as anyone else with a liberal arts degree can attest to, this is no fast track to success.  So, after I buried my 25 year Army veteran (and raging alcoholic) grandfather in 2008, I decided that the military was as lucrative a choice as any.  The pertinence to the story here is that, while I remained the same chemically dependent asshole on the inside, the outside needed a job, and there was the promise of assault rifles and the sanctioning of shooting people, so I jumped in feet first and started the path toward becoming a respectable US Army officer.

So here I am now.  I've followed that path to it's fruition and am now a commissioned officer in the United States Army.  I have a combat tour under my belt, and I've been living abroad now for nearly 2 years exploring the opportunities the world has to offer.  Unfortunately, the fundamental elements that make up the asshole persona that thinks this is interesting enough to share with people has changed very little.  I spent some time exploring why, and came to an undeniable conclusion.  This conclusion has slowly evolved into the answer to the question I laid before you at the start of this barely literary excursion.  I worked my ass off for two years.  I spent countless hours and days devoting myself to becoming an honorable contributing member of society.  I became a respected military leader:  a man that my family could be proud of, and my judgmental assfuck peers could envy, and it fucking BLOWS.

I got what I wanted.  I make a fuckton of money for a 24 year old kid.  I'll easily clear 90K this year.  This economy has left lawyers, bankers, doctors, and many other sleazy fucks out on the streets, and I am doing great.  The only problem is that I fucking loathe it.  I hate this life.  I hate everything in it.  I hate every single thing about what I have to do every single day, and were it not for the overinflated legal ramifications, I would get my ass on an airplane right the fuck now, and leave it behind.  But, of course, life doesn't work like that.  We can't just turn our backs on our responsibilities, especially when they involve contractual obligations to the Pentagon.  So here I am.  Depressed, lonely, miserable, and fucking disgusted at the sell-out mentality that led me here.  How does one deal with this nonsense?  How does one examine the world they have built for themselves and find nothing but disgust and shame reconcile that without tasting 700mph buckshot?  It's quite simple, really.  He drinks.  He drinks until that world dissolves around him and he can sit in a room with a record player and a bottle of whiskey and feel something other than despair.

You see, more than any other recreation in our lives, music is our catharsis.  We need it to feel.  We hear the words of sorrow, pain, joy, encouragement, determination, and desperation, and we empathize.  We know what Leroy Virgil means when he talks about not hitting rock bottom alone, but unfortunately, the words aren't enough anymore.  To take a cue from Miller's comedy article, life fucking blows.  For all of us.  None of us are doing what we want to do.  Human being aren't meant to waste their lives the way we waste ours.  This disgust at our existences has left us so jaded that even the words that speak directly to us in the deepest ways can't get through.  Our insides are scarred ugly callouses, and very few things can get through anymore.  Our ointment is drink.  It softens the senses.  It allows us to push away the anger and hate and desperation at our wasted lives and absorb those feelings from others and know that we aren't alone.  We don't drink to numb ourselves from everything.  We drink to drown out the background noise so we can feel what we are all looking for:  togetherness.  We know that it will put us in an early grave eventually, but we recognize that the time we have here is precious and that we'd rather spend it feeling like a part of something than being miserable for 80 years.   So, if you don't get it, feel free to look on us with disgust and hatred, but never pity.  We don't need it.  We're experiencing life in the only way that makes sense or will work for us, and at the end of this run, we'll have far less to regret than most people.

Sláinte.  In vino veritas.

Andrew is drunk somewhere.

Lords of Awful: Installment I: Shane MacGowan

Welcome ladies and gentleman to our first edition of our brand new "Lords of Awful" series. It is here that we will celebrate those who have lived, perfected, and inspired our lifestyle of awful. Our first master of drink and brilliance is none other than Shane MacGowan.

Best known as the toothless face behind the originators of the "Irish Folk Punk" sound, The Pogues, his amazing appetite for drink and drugs has often overshadowed his sheer brilliance. The first three albums that The Pogues released featured a collection of the finest songwriting since Townes Van Zandt was at his most prolific, and the man wielding the pen was more often than not Mr. MacGowan.

The displaced Irish group made there debut in 1984 with "Red Roses For Me". In a time when it was mighty unpopular to be Irish in London, The Pogues came out wearing their Irish on their sleeves with a collection of original and tradition songs. Their infusion of traditional Irish Folk music and punk attitude set them apart from all the post-punk new wave garbage that was dominating the charts in London, and found an audience in the disgruntled young displaced Irish youth in London. The shining moments on the "Red Roses" come from Shane's songwriting. His "gutter hymns" about drunken eternity, and the hardships of being Irish in a land that despises such as "Boys From The County Hell", and "Streams Of Whiskey" paint such a beautifully bleak picture, and offered a taste of the brilliance that would come from the band in the future.

Following the eye opening release of  "Red Roses For Me", The Pogues were back in the studio to record their follow up "Rum, Sodomy & The Lash", with a famous new fan producing the album in Elvis Costello. While Shane didn't always agree with the methods of Costello, one cannot argue with the results. "Rum, Sodomy, & The Lash" would be the album that propelled a band with great potential into being a truly great band. Once again, much of it was due to the songwriting of Shane MacGowan. "The Old Main Drag", "A Pair of Brown Eyes", and "Sally MacLennane" showed a depth not previously seen from the band. What "Rum, Sodomy & The Lash" showed was that this was not a gimmick. They were not just fast playing with no substance. This was a band with a sound, and a voice.

While the band continued to produce fantastic music, Shane continued his love affair with alcohol and narcotics. He claims in his autobiography that he would eat LSD every day, to go with the whiskey, gin, and cocaine that he was consuming on a regular basis. He even goes so far as to blame an experience on LSD in New Zealand for some of his missing teeth. Apparently, under the spell of lucy, he painted himself blue and began eating his Eagles records. This, as one would imagine, provided much oral trauma. Even though Shane's personal habits where beginning to spiral out of control, both he and the band had one more great album left. Their masterpiece, "If I Should Fall From Grace With God".

Lineup changes, Shane's increasing substance abuse, and problems with their record label led to a three year lapse between "Rum, Sodomy" and "If I Should Fall From Grace...", but it would be more than worth than weight. The band branched out by adding influences of Spanish, and Jazz to their sound, while still remaining loyal to their Irish roots. It was on this album that they would find their greatest success with "Fairytale Of New York." A broken christmas carol duet with Kirsty MacColl , the daughter of Ewan MacColl who famously penned "Dirty Old Town", would go on to reach number two on the charts and be remembered, at least by me, as the greatest Christmas song ever written.

Unfortunately, this would prove to be the end for the The Pogues brilliance. Two sub-par albums, creative differences, and Shane's increasing erratic behavior led to the bands breakup in 1991. Shane would go on to form "The Popes", and record "The Snake". It was a decent record, with the usual strong songwriting, but it was clear that the drink had taken it's toll on his voice. Neither the remaining members of The Pogues, nor Shane would ever achieve the success they had in the mid to late 80's again.

Today The Pogues are back together, although they don't record. You can catch them live, and if you're lucky Shane will not vomit on stage, and on a good night you can understand him as he growls through his songs. Shane MacGowan is the ultimate example of living the awful lifestyle that we promote here at Blue Ribbon Radio. He lived it, he wrote it, and while it may have left him a shell of the brilliant man that once was, without it we may not ever of had "Fairytale Of New York". So, Cheers, Shane, here's to you, and those like you.


Chris Miller continues his full on assault on his insides, while idolizing people who sweat pure gin.

Blue Ribbon Radio: J.B Beverley

Death In America

Death, and especially the way that it is treated, is a truly strange thing. The fact that so many different cultures have so many radically different views of death shows me more than perhaps any other single thing that there is no higher order to the Universe; we simply are here, and we should enjoy it. In many instances the Japanese seem to embrace death, while we Americans have an almost fetishized fear of it. There are indigenous tribes in Africa who don't give a shit about it, and there are the Irish who use it as a reason for a great party. These distinctions seem to be drawn largely among religious lines. Granted, I have not travelled outside of the U.S., but from my seat it seems the the Protestant countries have the worst view of death, America in particular.

Every funeral that I have ever attended has been an interesting mix of lies and hypocrisy. Perhaps it is just because I live in South Alabama, but I have never been to, or heard of, a funeral that has not been driven by religion. I always find it curious how preachers suddenly become ok with blatantly lying if it comforts the family.

The most egregious example I can think of is of my grandmother, who died a few years back of breast cancer. The cancer had spread all over her body, and in her last days she couldn't speak because of all the fluid that had built up in her throat. In spite of this the preacher, who I had tremendous respect for, decided to tell all in attendance that she had been singing hymns right up until the very end. As I sat in the front row as a pallbearer, fighting the urge to stand up and give a proper, bullshit free eulogy, I began to first realize that there is something dreadfully wrong with the way that we treat and remember our dead.

In general, I don't really have a problem with the viewing or wake, and it is in fact the only part of the traditional American funeral that I want a part of, more on that later. Ideally the viewing is a time to see old family and friends, and swap a nice story or two about the deceased. Naturally some women will cry, and more than a few husbands will spend the hour rolling their eyes and tapping their foot impatiently, wondering how they got suckered into coming. This is generally an inoffensive evening that culminates with overeating a bunch of food that other people cooked.

Where the American funeral becomes truly grotesque is at the actual funeral service. This is where regardless of your past behavior you are expunged of all evil and become a true and never-wavering Christian. This is where the preacher, the man who should represent everything that is good about Christianity, stands up and lies to your face. This is what sickens me about the way we observe death in this country. We have collectively said that we want to be told some farcical tale about how faithful the deceased was, and he is now in a better place (a phrase which makes me want to murder a litter of newborn puppies). In death we refuse to confront who the person actually was. This is not to say that we should talk about all of their faults and shortcomings, but we shouldn't gloss over their life either. It is a sensitive time, but that does not give you license to lie about their final days. That does a disservice to the deceased and their family, and it sickens me every time.

What so many funerals claim to do, and fail miserably at, is to celebrate the life of the dead. I have never known anyone who would want a multi-day event of moaning and wailing over how much they are going to be missed. It is incredibly depressing, and wholly unnecessary. It is very sad that someone close to you has died, but you should spend that time reflecting on the good times together instead of weeping because you'll only see them in heaven again, which is the tack that most funerals take. They are all geared to make you cry and depressed, but mine will be different. Oh yes, there will be drinks.

Although it may be a naïve misunderstanding of the Irish culture, I have always been interested in the idea of a wake. Having only stereotypes and movies to rely on, it seems to me that it is more a celebration of life with a hint of sadness at the passing, whereas American funerals are polar opposite. Morbid as it may be, this has caused me to spend some time considering how I want my own funeral/wake to be conducted.

To start, my casket has been converted to some sort of icebox, replete with good beer. I have been embalmed with my hand in the exact shape to hold a bottle of Wild Turkey, which everyone in attendance should drink from. I do not wish for any single eulogy, and I'm not even sure if I want anybody to give any sort of eulogy at all. If you do speak you should be warned that if you say I'm in a better place now the bouncer will throw you out. I want my wake to be a literal celebration of my life. Those who know me will know that I have loved drink and music, and would want neither disturbed with hogwash about how I was a kind and generous man with a heart of gold. I know I'm a straight bastard, and I don't think that it's anything to be ashamed of.

The music should be a mix of everything that should not be played at a funeral service, from Tom Waits to Led Zeppelin; Miles Davis to Franks both Zappa and Sinatra. I have loved music, in almost all of its forms for as long as I care to remember. I see no reason for an incessant drone of depressing hymns played on piano. At every funeral they claim to be celebrating the life of the dead, but the constant dirges, both played and sung, suggest otherwise.

After everyone comes to the next morning, they eat a grand and greasy hangover-killing breakfast and go home. That's it. No more funeral. My family will take me to be cremated, and there will be no weeping and gnashing of teeth as I'm lowered into the ground. There will be no perverse unspoken contest for who can mourn the hardest.

As the great Don Draper said, “Mourning is just extended self-pity.” Americans excel at this, and have built an entire industry around it. While there is nothing inherently wrong with feeling sadness at someone's passing, we have taken it above and beyond. The fact of the matter is that the Universe does not care; the Universe is indifferent. A person's passing should be marked with the respect of not feeling sorry for yourself and instead getting slobbering drunk and swapping stories.

 

Written by Frank Nichols

He's put away enough Wild Turkey to kill all of Kentucky

Three Rules: The Home Bar

With everything in life there are rules regarding how tings are done. Many of these are frivolous and unnecessary to be sure, but I believe there are some that are an honest attempt to provide a uniform way to do things in the best interest of the consumer. There are certain things that you should be able to do or order anywhere in the world and know exactly what you are getting. Every drinker dreams of having his own bar in his own home. Lucky for you I have made that dream a reality, and make real cocktails and as a result can make more real drinks than most bars around this terrible drinking wasteland known as Alabama and have learned a few things.

The first rule of home bartending is that everything works with ginger ale. It is impossible to make a bad drink with spirit, ginger ale, simple syrup and a lime wheel. Coke gets most of the attention as a mixer, but can you imagine gin and Coke? Tequila and Coke? Those are positively barbaric and belong only in the realm of high school drinkers who think they're hard for drinking hard liquor. Ideally, only rum should be put in Coke, and only then with the juice of half a lime so you have a Cuba Libre. However, ginger ale works with literally everything. I personally prefer a 1:1 or 2:1 mixture, but for some folks that is a bit strong. Whatever your ratio, I guarantee that ginger ale will complement you spirit so long as its Canada Dry. Seagram's is just sad.

The second rule of home bartending is that anything you can do with vodka, you can do better with gin. The whole point of vodka is to have as neutral of a spirit as you can; no flavor and no soul. On the other hand, gin take straight is as vile a spirit as has ever been made. However, as soon as you mix it with other liquids, it becomes magical. Case in point – the Martini. James Bond famously ordered a Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred. Most people are not aware that this is strictly a gimmick for the films, the novelized Bond preferred bourbon over all else, and the proper name for the drink is a Kangaroo. A well-made Martini is truly a thing of beauty. I make mine with 2 ounces of gin, ½ ounce of dry vermouth and stir it well. Going against tradition, I like to garnish with a lemon peel instead of an olive.

The third simple rule of home bartending is that you should always have backup bottles of all your liquor. This isn't so important with liquers that you only use a half ounce here and there, but it is crucial with your two ounce pours. On a night of heavy drinking I can easily put away ¾ of a bottle of whiskey, and there are times when you just can't make it to the liquor store the next day. Even on days when I don't get soused I still like to have a glass of bourbon while I watch the news and that doesn't leave much for a night when one glass turns to three. By having a backup bottle you never have to worry about running out, and this is especially important if you have company with a healthy capacity for consumption.

These three rules are by no means inclusive, and I hope to give more, but they are a good point to start at once you have made the decision to invest in a home bar. One of the greatest things about having your own bar at home is that you can always have a good and refreshing drunk without having to worry about a DUI. 

Frank Nichols is currently roaming the untamed lands of Alabama. He's the classiest thing to happen to awful since Pabst Blue Ribbon in a bottle

Laughing At Awful

Doug Stanhope's "action pose"

It's no secret to my long time listeners, all six of you, that there are three main things that help control my hatred and allow me to let the world to keep living another day. They are music, baseball, and stand up comedy. This, obviously, is about number three on the list.

Since watching George Carlin on HBO with my father when I was a kid, I have been absolutely in love with stand up comedy. Just as with music, or baseball, or heavy drinking, I dove right in and set about learning as much about this amazing art form as I possibly could. And make no mistake, friends, comedy is as pure an art form as there is today. But, ya know, with dick jokes. When I'm having a shitty day, and my brain won't shut the fuck up, I can get the same release from Doug Stanhope as I can by putting on a Hank Williams record. Comedy, like much of the music we play here at Blue Ribbon Radio, takes dark thoughts, shitty situations, mental disorders, failures, and turns them into something fantastic. You have to be able to laugh at life, or life will fucking destroy you. That's how important I think comedy is.

 

Art!

 Now, folks, I know comedy is subjective. What one finds funny, another may find offensive, or just downright incest baby retarded. I know there are a lot people out there that find Dane Cook hilarious. I'm not going to get into the joke stealing arguments, or anything like that, I'm just going to say I find him to about as funny as puppy cancer. The only place I want to see gimmicks is in professional wrestling. If your act is based around props, having your hand up a puppets ass, or inventing new and retarded ways to say "fuck you" in sign language, I couldn't give less of a fuck about you. It's the same argument that we've been making about music since day one of our terrible drunken existence. The pop country song about fucking under a tractor, and the puppet master who makes easy jokes about dead terrorists will always be more marketable to the masses, and thus will always exist. That's fine. Enjoy, masses.

What I want out of my comedy is the same thing I want from my music. I want darkness, I want to hear somebody talk about something fucked up that I can relate to so I don't feel so fucked up about being fucked up. Also, dick jokes. I can understand when Bill Burr talks about thinking of killing himself just to get out of having to bake a pie on Thanksgiving. I get how the fucked up person's mind works. When Bill Hicks ranted against mediocre bands being a good image for the children, and told wonderful stories about taking LSD and exploring one's minds, I got it. When Gallagher smashed a Watermelon, I didn't get it.

This Man Fucking HATES Watermelons

The point is, if I really have one, is that the old saying "laughter is the best medicine" isn't too far off. We live in a fucked up world that is slowly collapsing in on itself because we're absolute morons. If you can't laugh at it, it's going to be a long fucking trip.


Chris Miller is currently in Northern California drinking like his liver fucked his wife.

Blue Ribbon Radio's Ode To The Drifters

Blue Ribbon Radio is back this week with it's tribute to those who've lived life on the road, been displaced from home, and spent more than their share of time wandering the highways looking for something better. Here's to ya, folks. Cheers.

Awful Abroad: Installment 2: One Night in Amsterdam

Hello and welcome back to the Blue Ribbon Radio series, Awful Abroad!  We kicked off our virtual tour of fortress Europa with a brief hit on Germany and a few nods toward what I see as the greatest brewing tradition in all the world. We certainly have far more to cover in Germany, but I wouldn't dare dedicate just a single article to all the awful that Germany has to offer.

Which brings me to the point that I feel I should have made in installment one.  This is NOT a travel guide if you're looking for anything to do other than seek out the best ways to participate in as much deviant behaviour as possible.  The subject of our second installment, the Netherlands, absolutely offers some of the most breathtaking scenery, richest culture, and tourist friendly societies in Europe.  That shit, however, is not what I'm here to write about.  No, my friends. We do not seek higher cultural enlightment and loads of new Facebook pictures to share with our families.  Our trip into the heart of darkness is unabashedly aimed at one thing:  being a terrible person.

If any city in western Europe exists that was purpose built for the non-fuck-giving adventurer, that city would be Amsterdam.  Now, I know what you're thinking:  POT BARS!  Shut the fuck up hippy.  You've never been to Amsterdam, and if you have, then you fucking did it wrong.

Doesn't know what a Hamster Dam is...

Now that my ignorant-filthy-hippy bash has been photographically played out, we can move on to an actual discussion.  Yes.  Amsterdam is the home of the infamous "marijuana-cafes" that every person thinks of when they imagine a trip to Amsterdam, and it is here that we begin our discussion, short and disappointing though it may be.  The bottom line is this:  American tourists have simply caused too much trouble for too many years to make the pot-cafe a place one would actually want to visit.  Sadly, the stereotype of the awful American tourist is absolutely true.  Having found myself in dozens of international airports surrounded by Americans and their fat-assed obnoxious fucking families, it no longer bothers me when waiters, bartenders, and InterPol officers are predisposed to being dicks toward me.

There are various influencing factors, but when it comes down to it, too many people (Americans) who can't handle their shit have gone and caused trouble in the pot-cafes.  They have all essentially begun a membership program similar to some nightclubs in America.  If you're not a member, you can't get in, and at MOST of these joints, if you're not Dutch, you can't be a member.  So, legal drug-tourism in a marijuana cafe is pretty much out for most of us.  Unless you are well connected, the pot-cafe experience is getting harder and harder to find in Amsterdam.  What does remain, however, are street drugs.

The legality of USING marijuana remains the same; unfortunately, acquiring it becomes legally ambiguous (or illegal for those who lack subtlety glands).  Basically, if you can avoid getting busted by buying it from the growing number of street dealers, you're still legally allowed to own it... up to a certain amount.  I don't know how much, and if you're thinking of trying this shit, I suggest you do your own reasearch beyond reading the ramblings of a drunken asshole like me. 

Typical street drugs (ecstacy, coke, speed, shrooms) are also available in relatively good supply, though these are all outright illegal and getting busted with them will land your ass in a Dutch jail, though, admittedly, I'm sure I've stayed in hotels shittier than even the worst Dutch prison.

Locked Up Abroad: DisneyLand!!!

The allure of getting outrageously fucked up on amphetamines and hallucinogens with friendly Europeans makes most of this well worth the risk of getting caught for a lot of people.  Even the oft spat-on American military community finds it easy to make friends with locals in the Netherlands, so long as they're not pot-cafe owners.  So, if you're outgoing and can afford the possibility of a few months locked up making wooden shoes, then you could really have one fuck of a time in Amsterdam.

Eten mijn voet!!!

So, you've braved the wilds of Amsterdam's clog filled streets and scored yourself one sick ass eightball of high-grade Colombiana.  What, oh what, will you do with all of that energy and the drug boner you are so conspicuously sporting?  Why, you'll fuck until you just can't anymore... that's what you'll do!

Now, I'm going to say something outrageously racist right now, but experience has shone it to be inexplicably true.  Unless you are of an ethnicity other than Hitler-inspiring caucasian, you will find it difficult to get laid in many European countries; especially if you're an American.  The only theory I can offer is that everyone here is white, and bitches like variety.  I've seen it play out hundreds of times in bars and clubs across Europe.  You can have the best game in the world and be on your way out the door with your European beauty, but if just one relatively symmetrical black man walks in, you will not be taking her home.  Seriously.  Even if she doesn't leave with him, she's not going with you.  So, what's a horny coke-fiend to do?  Why, visit the greatest red-light district in existence, of course!

Where stop means go!

Now, sex-tourism is a problem on a global scale.  Girls and women are kidnapped from their homes and forced by human traffickers into sex-slavery all over the world.  This is probably the most serious human rights violations in the post-WWII world, and you just don't know us if you think we're not going to make light of it. Here's the deal:  In many European countries prostitution is a perfectly legal and governmentally regulated enterprise.  Amsterdam has taken this concept and turned it into what I have just now dubbed "Pussyland."  Seriously, people, this place is like Wal Mart.  You can get it all there.  Black, white, Asian, midget, tranny (for our good friend Blake over at IBWIP)... You name it, you can fuck it in Amsterdam's red light district.  Now, sex-tourism is not without it risks, and it is highly recommended (seriously... google this shit... there are entire blogs dedicated to finding the best whorehouses in Amsterdam) that you do your research before you just take off lest you be ripped off by the evil conniving prostitutes.  But, if you play your cards right and don't mind dropping a few hundred Euro to brutalize the naughty bits of a call-girl/boy/gender-nondescript, you can go ahead and work off a little of that drug energy the way God intended.

As for the ladies... seriously... if you haven't figured out now that nearly every man you know or meet is willing to have non-committed sex with you at any given moment by now, then your naivety is not something with which we can assist you.

Andrew continues to shorten his life expectancy daily in Bavaria in order to bring entertainment to the masses.

Lets Talk About Awful

Not Pictured: Sobriety

Those of you that have followed Blue Ribbon Radio over any point in the last three years know that there is no more awful pair of bastards this side of hell than me, and my co-host, Andrew. We drink until you have liver damage, we have ingested more drugs than Charlie Sheen on a runner, and at least one of us has shot someone in the face. We're the worst.

But what does it really mean to be "awful"? Why have we based our entire show, and internet presence, on something that the normal person, even some of our would be listeners, would find offensive?

The answer is pretty simple. It's who we are, and we refuse to misrepresent ourselves as anything less. Why would we? The entire point of country music is truth, and that's what we represent. Just like Waylon Jennings, George Jones, Hank Williams, and countless others, we wear our faults on our sleeves, and we're proud of them. We know we're terrible, and we embrace it.

The world is littered with people shunning their natural instincts and ignoring who they are for profit and popularity. We have announced loudly "FUCK THAT!" We are who we are, and there are many more like us, and they will get we do, and you guys are the reason we do this.

We have no voice. There are other shows, and blogs, and as good as they are, they do not embrace the absolute awful that we represent. This is why we have created the "All Encompassing Blog Of Awful". This isn't just a place for me and Andrew to blow off steam, this is YOUR blog.

We all have a voice here at Blue Ribbon Radio. It's a slurred voice, but a voice nonetheless. When you get drunk after a long week at work and need to let off steam, don't hold that shit it in. Write it down and send it to us! Do you want to record a podcast? Send it to us! Everybody needs an outlet for their awful. This is your outlet. Embrace it.

We're back. We're awful. Cheers.



Chris Miller is currently living in Chico, Ca. He spends his free time trying to think of ways to entertain people he's never met

Dressing For Drinks

 There are few experiences in life as pleasurable as drinking good whiskey while wearing a well cut blazer. Sartorially speaking, drinkers have been engaged in a steady decline from the glory days of the Rat Pack. Several reasons exist for why you should head to the bar dressed in something better than a T-shirt and ratty jeans; the main one being attributed to a half-remembered quote saying “Dissolute behavior in a coat and tie is always more amply forgiven.”

First, it bears discussion just what constitutes good drinking attire. Obviously there are varying degrees of dress depending upon your situation. One wouldn't go to a dive bar in black tie just as one shouldn't darken the door of an upscale watering hole in shorts. Naturally the weather will have an impact as well; corduroy in the winter and seersucker in the summer.

The main point is to wear something that you feel comfortable in. My current rig is a blue blazer with a small check pattern, a purple shirt in a medium gingham print, light blue jeans and brown leather shoes. It never fails to get a complement when I go out, and it has the added benefit of making you feel better than everyone else in the bar. Few things emasculate someone more than telling them you aren't dressed up, simply dressed like a grown up. This must be done with a slightly cocked eyebrow as you sip your whiskey, embarrassing the Philistine holding a Bud Light right in front of the girl he's been talking to all night while she moves another barstool closer to you.

One of the more compelling reasons for dressing for drinks is pure economics. Most bars I've been to have Wild Turkey priced somewhere between $4 and $8. If you are reading this, chances are you don't leave without at least six drinks, so that adds up quickly. It's very easy to pay at the bar what you would pay for a bottle at home and leave without a good buzz. This is where your jacket proves indispensable. All jackets worth buying have at least two large inside pockets, which just so happen to hold a flask quite well. My flasks hold six ounces, which I have found to be a near perfect amount for carrying.

Although this is a sneaky, dishonest and underhanded method, so is charging $8 a pour. Depending on your bar, and your bartender, it shouldn't be an issue to have him top off your glass with ice halfway through your drink. Afterwards you can discreetly pull your flask out and freshen your drink up, and unless you are in an empty bar noone will be any the wiser. Unfortunately because you are stealing from the bar, and because your bartender may be complicit in this by not saying anything, you should tip at least double what you normally would. Personally I throw down a dollar per drink, (one reason why I only order doubles) so when I'm packing a flask I throw at least two dollars into the jar and sometimes more if I've been spotted.

This may come as a shock to you reader, but there are many people who go to the bar to get laid. I know you may be skeptical, but it is true. This is possibly your greatest reason to dress like you give a damn. While you can take somebody home wearing one of those godawful MMA/Affliction/Tattoo/Herpes Indicator T-shirts, they generally are not the type of people who really know what they're doing once you get them naked. However, that is not the specific reason you should put on a jacket on your way out the door. The reason is that it gives you confidence.

Once you have put together your drinking uniform, every time you put it on you get in the zone. You know that you look good, and you have the confidence that she really was giving you a double-take. This confidence translates to other areas besides trying to convince a member of the fairer sex to do dirty things with you. You shoot pool better. That awkward small talk with the guy sitting next to you, or even worse, the weirdness when you're early and it's just you and the bartender, it gets easier. For a little while you can pretend you're as cool as the Rat Pack. Your drinking uniform helps you to relax and have a great time at the bar instead of just a good one, even if you struck out.

I know that the Blue Ribbon Radio audience is not exactly the type of audience to heed this advice, and that is exactly why I gave it. I know that it takes a lot of adjustment to put on a blazer and collared shirt. I struggled through it for two years before it became truly comfortable. Just as with everything that you have to develop a taste for it takes effort, and it is well worth it in the end. If no other piece of advice sticks with you, just remember the original reason I gave for dressing for drinks: “Dissolute behavior in a coat and tie is always more amply forgiven.”

Written by Frank Nichols

Awful Abroad: Installment One: Bier vom Deutschland

So, somehow this blog page has been up now for a few weeks, and I have yet to make any significant contributions other than the occasional “Fuck yeah!” or other encouragement to my partners in awful. If you’re reading this now, then obviously I decided to do something about that. If not, then I got busy or drunk and never got around to finishing or publishing this article. For anyone that’s familiar with our modus operandi here at Blue Ribbon Radio, you know that we enjoy both getting too drunk to do things and sprinkling Latin phrases throughout our ramblings as a reminder that we may be awful, but at least we’re not fucking stupid.

On to the topic of the hour: Being Awful Abroad. As the only underground roots/country music podcast with a European based correspondent, it’s high-time we capitalized on this monopoly and shared with you the stories of my one man rampage through continental Europe over the past few years. Certainly Europe offers many of the same delightful attractions of being a terrible person as the good ol’ U S of A, but it would be a great disservice to our readership to not point out some of the particularly scrumptious (and often even legal) activities in which one can partake while expanding your cultural awareness… assuming, of course, any of our readers are actually capable of getting a passport. (DISCLAIMER: Simply reading this blog entry is likely to have you placed on a list of persons not allowed to get a passport. We are only mildly responsible for this, and really you should have known that before clicking on this article link).

"Pictured: Persons not allowed to get passports”

We begin our journey in my current European home, Deutschland (or Germany for non-Deutsch sprech-ers…). It’s hard to say what the average American pictures when he thinks about Germany (primarily because I have never been, save one particular area of measurement, average), but I have to assume that most people think of snow-capped mountains, funny little moustaches, and *insert holocaust joke here. The reality, however, is that Germany has certainly come a long way since it tried to murder everyone with big noses 70 years ago. Despite the division of Germany throughout the Cold War, today the German people are a modern society boasting the richest economy in Europe and a cultural history, save that uncomfortable 6 years back in the 40s, that is steeped in tradition. The greatest of these traditions is where we now turn our attention. Beer. Or Bier, in the local tongue (pronounced similarly, but with a slight air of racial superiority).

”Alkohol uber alles!”

Of course, most European countries boast a rich history of brewing, but none so completely and seriously as the Germans. We’re talking about a country so good at making beer, that even their non-alcoholic varieties taste good enough to not only stomach, but actually enjoy. From the ever-popular Hefeweizen, a golden wheat beer served year round and served with everything from citrus slices, to banana-nectar, to a 50-50 mix with soda called “Cola-weizen,” this stuff is the fundamental building block for your German beer adventure. Served in a modest half-liter glass (a little over a pint) and sporting healthy ABV ratings of 7% and higher, this is a sure-fire accompaniment to any evening of public intoxication charges. Possibly the best aspect of German brewing is that the majority of it is done in small scale operations. This means that every city and town in Germany usually boasts its own brauhaus, with the majority of them specializing in their own recipes for hefe-, pilsner, and seasonal beers.

On the topic of seasonal beers (which number in the hundreds if not thousands), we must address one particular Bavarian town, Bamberg, that specializes in a type of brewing that takes everything that is good about life (pork and alcohol in case you have been under a rock or are Jewish), says “fuck it” and brings them together in an alcoholic experience on par with taking a body shot of Dom Perignon off of Jessica Alba’s pre-pregnancy stomach.

This one.

The monstrosity of amazement to which I am referring is what many Americans living abroad have dubbed “the bacon beer.” Is it bacon flavored? Not really. To be more precise, the particular style of brewing results in what is called rauchbier (roughly pronounced ro-*hock a loogie noise*-beer), where rauch=smoked. The details of the brewing process can be Googled at your leisure, but the gist is this: Make a really good beer then somehow infuse it with the smoke from hardwood trees. Meat connoisseurs out there might recognize this as very similar to how we make bacon and barbecue and anything else that tastes better than everything else. The result is a liquid that looks not exactly but almost entirely like someone mixed Guinness with used motor oil that boasts a strong smoky flavor that calls to mind the aforementioned meat products that we all hold so dear.

Recommended you change it ever 3000 miles

Bear in mind, many people, the monks of the Sclenkerla monastery where the best brand is brewed included, find the taste and alcohol content very strong and tend to enjoy this delicacy in moderation. We’re here to be awful, though, so have at least six before you order your last six.

Andrew is currently a resident of central Bavaria where he enjoys eating cabbage and destroying his insides in the pursuit of fun.

Blue Ribbon Radio: The Return

The liver damage I endured making this better have been worth it. Enjoy.

God Bless The Smoking Man

Written by Frank Nichols

Regardless of your opinion on smoking, it is undeniable that tobacco, and especially cigarettes, have had a profound effect on world culture, and American culture in particular. More so than any other, we have idolized the smoker. The Marlboro Man and Joe Camel are two of the most iconic figures in advertising, and the Cigarette Smoking Man was one of the most compelling characters from the X-Files. Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra, and Sean Connery are three of the greatest smokers in history and why the anti-tobacco lobby will always be wrong when they say smoking isn't cool. Cigarette smokers are the last true emblem of American freedom, and it reeks of irony that they have only achieved this status by having their freedoms stripped away.

It would be foolish not to address the health concerns surrounding smoking cigarettes, and for two reasons: First, it is fairly well undeniable that they are detrimental to your health, and second, it is because of these health risks that the smoker is such a powerful symbol. Apart from the tobacco industry, there is likely no one who might say cigarettes are not harmful, and on some occasions they have admitted this as well. While I personally believe the health risks are a bit overblown, I do not deny that they exist, and in fact I embrace them.

The modern cigarette smoker is aware of all these risks, and they still light up. Risks like these are hard-wired into American DNA, going all the way back to the Revolutionary War. We declared Independence from England so that we could do whatever the hell we wanted. After we became Independent, you could worship any god or no god, print whatever anti-government pamphlet you wished. Who better than the smoker to represent doing everything that The Man tells you not to?

You ban us from your public buildings? Fine. We will walk your thirty feet from the door in freezing rain to light up. You pass laws prohibiting us from smoking in the very taverns this country was built in? We will find loopholes, or pay the fine and ignore the unjust law just as our forefathers did. Through the fog of history we have remembered them as patriots, but not for what they truly were: a bunch of bootlegging traitors who didn't want to pay their taxes. Perhaps one day our children's children will look upon cigarette smokers in the same way.

While all smokers fit this bill to a certain degree, it is the “social smoker” who embodies the American spirit the best. This is the group that I proudly fall into. The majority of smokers are addicted to cigarettes, so theirs is not so much a choice as a compulsion. The social smoker truly makes his own decision to pollute his lungs. Just as the Revolutionaries who threw the tea overboard, we make a conscious decision that may prove harmful to our health. Boldly we defy the nanny state who warns us of the dangers. Why do we do it? We do it because it does give us pleasure (even though those Newport ads are god-awful). We do it because it looks cool. We do it because nothing goes with a double Wild Turkey on the rocks like a Camel Wide.

Unfortunately, there are smokers who make the rest of us look bad. There are far too many examples of white trash tooling around in a Camaro with one window cracked chain-smoking USA Golds with a three year old standing in the front seat. People like this should be ashamed of themselves, and do not represent all that is good and right and free about smoking cigarettes.

By and large, smokers can be a considerate bunch. If smoking truly offends you, most will not smoke around you, and if they do they won't blow in your direction. Unless you are in a bar, (in which case you have no right to complain) smokers will often go out of their way not to be around you when they smoke, especially in an enclosed area. By doing so, a tight-knit community develops around smokers, especially those who work together. Just as heavy drinkers do, we congregate around our own, and don't take kindly to intruders. Nobody likes being judged, and this aversion to outsiders strengthens our bonds, and prompts us to do things like write essays on why smokers are the last symbol of freedom in America.

This community of smokers is a large one, with myriad examples of people who have contributed greatly to our culture despite smoking. The best examples of this are musicians. Miles Davis, arguably the greatest trumpet player to have ever lived, was a smoker. The trumpet is extremely taxing on the lungs, and yet he still managed to change the course of music five or six times. For many, a Jazz bar just wouldn't feel right without a thick haze of smoke over the room. With Jazz being one of the only true American music genres, it is a crime that many wish to steal that experience from our progeny. My personal favorite musician, Tom Waits, simply would not be without cigarettes. His voice could only happen because of cigarettes. “Small Change got Rained On (With His Own .38)” is my favorite song to smoke to, and it even begins with the sound of a cigarette being lit. Old Blue Eyes was a heavy smokey, and I defy you to tell me that he wasn't the coolest man to have ever walked the face of the Earth.

Ultimately, what this country is all about is personal freedom, and most importantly, the ability to make your own well-informed choices about how you live your life. Who better than the social smoker to represent this? The more that the nanny state legislates it, the more powerful the symbol of a willful smoker becomes. God bless the Smoking Man.