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.