One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer

Heard the song on my way home last night.

For the 10,000th time. A blues classic indeed, covered by everybody from John Lee Hooker to George Thorogood and everybody in between.

Got me reminiscing about back in the day, when bars were my home and home was a place to sleep.

The song captures a moment in time when the Alcohol Police weren't constantly looking over your shoulder. Admittedly, it was a long moment in time and I'm glad I caught the tailend of it.

I can't pinpoint the moment when the Temperance Movement rose to power, but I'm pretty sure I snuck in around 20 good years of insanity. Priceless. And worth it.

Back then you could order a shot and a beer. What? How very decadent. Morally reprehensible. Try it now and you will be shunned by society. Blacklisted. Tarred and feathered and run out of town.

A shot and a beer go together like PB&J, man. It's indisputable. I don't drink a lot of beer these days, because it fills me up and my bladder has very little patience, but when I do drink beer I invariably pour myself a shot. It's just the way god wants it.

My father and I were actually shut off in a Pizza Hut once. A fucking Pizza Hut. We drank a pitcher of beer - and I'm talking about what passes for a pitcher in Pizza Hut - more like a thimble. We ordered another one and were told they would not serve us. And we were not naked and singing Sympathy For The Devil while standing on the table.

Christ, man.

American society is so hypocritical. People demonize alcohol for show, and then commit to pouring as much of it down their throats as possible. As often as possible.

When I worked at the liquor store, I often wondered what percentage of people were going home to get drunk, and what percentage were going home for a civilized drink.

I would bet my house the drunk percentage is much higher than you think.

This is why I prefer the company of derelicts. They just do their thing - without guilt - have fun, get insane, laugh a lot. And when the morning light comes streaming in, they get up and do it again, amen.

Alcohol is magic. It's self-regulating. You can consume just enough to take the edge off. Or you can hit it hard and erase your life for a while. Your call. They even sell it in itty bitty bottles that you can slip into your pocket and sneak into work for those times when your boss decides to flex his "asshole" muscle.

The deranged portion of my brain is calling out to me. Maybe I'll pour myself one bourbon, one scotch and one beer just for spite. Just to do it. Settle into my recliner and watch The Sox. Although I'd much rather be watching The Bruins. Shit, man - I'm missing them badly. Severely. Sucks they got eliminated.

One bourbon, one scotch and one beer will surely make baseball more palatable.