GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #5: I AM AN UTTER BASTARD

Those who know me now would find it hard to believe, but once upon a time, I didn't believe in drinking and doing drugs. I had no problem with others doing those things, as I've always believed in the freedom to get fucked up, but back when I was a teenager, I decided that I didn't want to pollute my body. This is hilarious, considering it's coming from a dummy who ate a McDonald's dinner every night for six straight years. No shit, I never missed a night. But other than fast food, I didn't put any other harmful things in my body. I didn't even take aspirin when I had a headache.


However, I DID encourage my friends to get as fucked up as humanly possible. I remember senior year of high school. I was sitting in a friend's bedroom--I won't mention who, because I don't know if he'd be cool with me saying so--with Robert Tannahill, my artist on THE COCAINE! BROS. and my hetero-lifemate. (I mention him because I'm certain he wouldn't give a fuck.) They were broke and couldn't afford to buy anything that would get them nice and fucked up, so they decided to huff some Glade. That sounded incredibly dangerous to me, but far be it for me to stop a man from being inebriated.


I did what any responsible friend would do: I got them into a Glade-huffing contest. Who could suck down air freshener for the longest? As you can imagine, this couldn't be determined in one round. I sat watching them do this for at least a half an hour, and I couldn't believe their capacity for this. I kept time, because back then, I was a pretentious fuck who carried a pocket watch on a chain. To the best of my memory, my nameless friend won, but at a huge price. He was fucked the fuck up. He was so far gone, he couldn't function. So Rob, who has done harder things than huffing Glade and was thus still capable of fairly clear thought, mercilessly mocked him.


This brings to mind another memory: later, Rob and our friend lived together briefly. Our friend left his liquor out, and Rob (at the tender age of 19) decided he was going to get drunk on Cuervo. He put me in charge of pouring shots. I'm pretty sure he came close to finishing off that bottle. In those days, I didn't have a car, so I had to depend on the kindness of strangers (and sometimes my grandparents) to drive me around. (Hey, I was only 18. I worked at the local library earning minimum wage at the time, which was $4.75 an hour.) It was so late, I had to walk home. That's OK. It was only two miles.


Rob, hammered as much as he was, had to walk me home. So we walked down the train tracks to Spring Road, where we intended to take the Prairie Path back to my place. However, he was so fucked up he started puking. Every few steps, we would have to stop so he could vomit on the sidewalk, or in an alley, or even in potted plants maintained by the Elmhurst Park District. Before long, I had to hold him up as we walked. I remember some drunken college kids coming out of Doc Ryan's calling us "faggots," and Rob tried to get away from me so he could kick their asses. Finally, I couldn't support his boozy frame anymore, so we sat on the bench by the gazebo where Spring intersects with the Prairie Path. He spent the next hour puking, and then he got up, leaving his wallet, cigarettes and lighter on the bench. I gathered his things and followed him. In the end, I wound up walking HIM home before turning back and going to my own place by myself.


The next day, he was soooooo fucking hungover. He called me to give me shit, and at that moment, he revealed to me that the reason he put me in charge of pouring shots was because he thought I'd be compassionate enough to cut him off if he got too drunk.


Whoops. You live and you learn.


But I'm such an utter bastard that in response, I laughed. To this day, if I'm walking down Spring Road with someone who knows Rob, I will play a game with them. It's called Guess Where Rob Puked. Here's the thing: you can't lose. He puked EVERYWHERE.


I'd say sorry, but . . . well, I'm still an utter bastard.

HAIL SATAN! A review of Jim Beam Devil's Cut

When you see it on the shelf at your local liquor store, it looks like one of the deadliest whiskeys available. The label looks like it was half-burned off the bottle, and anytime you see the word “devil” on a bottle of booze, you should probably think twice before dancing in the pale moonlight.



Jim Beam isn’t the greatest of bourbons. In fact, it’s safe to say it’s the best of the cheap booze. It tastes just good enough, it kicks just enough ass, and it saves you just enough money to keep coming back for more. Sadly, a while ago they abandoned their original 86-proof recipe in favor of a standard 80. They recently brought it back with their black label, but now they’re creeping up into harder territory with a 90-proof bourbon.


If Kid Rock was half the man he seems to think he is, he would have endorsed this product, not that Red Stag bullshit. Pour that first drink and take a whiff. It smells quite a bit like Jim Beam, but as if someone had run it through a George Dickel White Label filter first.


Considering all of this information, there is no way this isn’t going to burn on its way down your gullet. Surprise! While the Devil is a vicious brute, he’s a smooth bastard who would talk the panties off of a saint. Wow, this goes down easy, and there is no afterburn. The taste does exactly what you need it to, and the 90-proof alcohol goes straight to work. And when it hits your stomach, it ignites with the perfect warmth. There is a bit more of an oaky flavor, but that’s no surprise, considering its story: “As bourbon ages, the angel’s share is lost to evaporation. The Devil’s Cut is trapped in the barrel wood—until now. Jim Beam’s Devil’s Cut is a distinctly bold bourbon with rich flavor unlocked from deep inside the barrel.”


Their black label is pretty damned good, and so is Booker’s, from the master distiller’s private stock, but Devil’s Cut is the best Beam booze to hit the market. Get on top of this shit right away, before it gets on top of you.

A WHISKEY THAT LIVES UP TO ITS NAME: A review of Woodford Reserve

Before you even open the bottle to get a good whiff, you can tell that this is some serious, fancy-pants booze you’re holding. The bottle is slim, almost like a flounder, and the cork (yes, cork, not spin-top) even has the company’s logo emblazoned on it. There is a label on the bottom telling you which bottle number this is, from which batch. Granted, a lot of whiskies are doing that these days in order to give the impression (sometimes falsely) that their booze has a longstanding tradition and is well worth the over-inflated money you’re about to pay them.



How does Woodford Reserve measure up? At 90.4 proof, you know this stuff is capable of kicking your ass, but the smoothness is what will truly convince you. There is practically no burn, just a little heat with the aftertaste. Hence, you can probably drink this all day and be fucked up long before you realize it.


There is an oddness to its flavor though. It’s thick and very earthy, kind of like sucking on a twig. Yes, Woodford Reserve tastes kind of like, well, wood. This could actually put it on par with the Scottish Ardbeg, which tastes like you’re drinking a campfire.


No matter how you look at it, Woodford Reserve is strong, and it’s good stuff, well worth the $35 and change you’ll pay for a fifth.