GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #607: 200

 

It's my 200th day from booze, and while I was taking a break from writing GF columns, I found the first bottle of booze I ever drank.

Yeah, all right, I save weird things sometimes. I'm a pubic hair's width away from being a hoarder, and I guess my discovery of whiskey had enough of an effect on me that I knew I'd want to remember the bottle that started it all.

Except the whole thing got out of hand pretty badly. I've gone over that before, so I won't ramble about it again. Suffice to say that I don't think I became an alcoholic until my mid-thirties. I bought this bottle in my early twenties. I might still have been in college at the time.

Look at that! Only six faces on the label! Booker Noe was still the distiller back then. That would be the guy Booker's is named after, and that is my actual favorite whiskey in the world. Wild Turkey 101 is my favorite that I can afford. Booker's probably goes for $80 a bottle now.

Jim Beam was my choice back then because that was Gramps's favored drink (since no one could ever make a Manhattan to his satisfaction). Near the end of my boozing days I recognized how out of control things were getting. I was drinking Canadian whiskey that I bought at five bucks a handle, for Christ's sake. I made the decision that I would never drink anything cheaper than Beam. A lot of drinkers scorn the Beam choice, but it's fairly inexpensive, and it gets the job done.

Although if I could afford better, I usually got that instead.

I miss booze, but I'm a rare alcoholic who actually enjoys the taste. This seems like heresy, but I'm wondering if there are any non-alcoholic bourbons out there. That might be nice to look into.

Anyway, my next stop on the no booze wagon train is my year mark. Let's see if I can get there.

This man has no idea how awesome he's going to be in Zardoz.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #595: THE SMORGASBORD

 Tomorrow would have been Gramps's 96th birthday. It's hard to believe he's been gone almost seven years. I always used to think that if he died, I would completely lose it. I wouldn't be able to function. And while times have been pretty rough since his passing, and I've gone crazy a couple of times, I didn't completely lose it.

Since I don't do these things on weekends, I thought that this one should be about Gramps. I've told you all about him quite often, so I had to struggle to think of something. Maybe it's not all that glamorous, but here we go.

I remember when I was a kid Gramps had a very strict diet he adhered to. A veritable smorgasbord, if you will, of sandwiches. Every night he would make these towering sandwiches that would make Jughead drool. And he'd eat four or five of these giant things. I have no idea how he did it or even why, but he took great pleasure in his giant sandwiches.

And then after he finished eating he would pour one (1) shot of Jim Beam and take it down. "For digestion," he always told me.

I figured that's what adults did for dinner. Ate a bunch of absurdly big sandwiches and then have one shot of whiskey after. In imitation I would make a sandwich for myself (no more than that, I was still a skinny kid back then) and take one of his shotglasses so I could drink apple juice from it, thinking that when I grew up I'd switch from Mott's to Jim Beam.

I got the Jim Beam part right. A little too right, some might say. But I don't eat all that many sandwiches. Except for at lunch. And never more than one in a sitting.

It's too bad they never had sandwich eating competitions. Gramps would have been a stone cold killer at those.

Happy birthday, Gramps.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #505: VISITING GRAMPS POST DETOX

You and me both, Billy. You and me both.

 Today marks the 31st day since my last drink. A whole month! Holy shit! And it's not February on a non-Leap Year, either. It's like a July or a December. The last time I did something like that was probably 15 years ago. I've been drunk almost every day since.

That means yesterday was Day 30. How did I celebrate? I went to a liquor store and a bar.

*record scratch*

Why would I do that? Three reasons. The first covers both scenarios. Like Billy the Kid in Young Guns, I believe in testing myself every day. How am I supposed to stay away from booze in a world where booze surrounds me? I have to be used to it. If I can't accept that fact, then I might as well drink myself silly again. I didn't even think of getting something to drink at either place. Didn't even enter my mind.

The second reason applies to the bar. My aunt is in town, and she wanted to take me to lunch. She had her dog with her, and Fitz's Pub is pet friendly. We sat outside, but I went in to see if it was OK to do so. I spoke with the bartender, surrounded by glittering bottles of amber fluid, and I got permission and walked back out. Again, I didn't have any cravings or urges. Easy going.

The third reason is the biggest, though, at least for me. Longtime readers remember that whenever I visit my grandfather's grave I bring along two airplane bottles of Jim Beam, his favorite whiskey. I would pour one into the ground for him, and I would drink the other myself. It has been tradition for as long as my grandfather has been dead.

Just because I'm on the wagon doesn't mean Gramps has to suffer. So I went to the liquor store and bought one airplane bottle. Any other time I would have been salivating for a handle of booze even before I so much as touched the door handle outside. Once again, I didn't think of getting something for myself. Not even one iota. I got that airplane bottle and pocketed it and headed for the cemetery.

I told myself that I would at least smell it when I took the top off. Just to see my own reaction. They say that if you're away from hard liquor for a while, you don't even like the smell of it, and I wanted to see for myself.

So I visited with Gramps. This was the first time visiting Grandma since she passed, as she and her mom are buried on the same plot with Gramps. After spending some time with them I twisted off the top and poured it down onto Gramps's side of the grave. Only later, as I was throwing out the empty bottle, did I realize that I'd forgotten to smell the whiskey. So I never did find out if I'm repulsed by the smell yet.

I doubt it. Most alcoholics will say they don't even like the taste of liquor. They just drink it for the effect. I'm different, though. I revel in the taste of whiskey. Anyone who has ever had a few with me knows that I don't grimace when I take down a shot, and I will sometimes swish it around in my mouth before swallowing. For maximum effect, of course.

I'm sure I'll find out the next time I visit Gramps. If I remember to take a sniff.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #270: GRAMPS

For all my life, I thought that Gramps dying would be the worst thing to happen to me. When he actually started dying, I went kind of crazy. Some of you were there for that, and I'm ever grateful for the help you offered.


I'm still not over it. There are days when I don't think about him, but they aren't often. I dream about him a lot, like he's still alive. Sometimes I even wake up thinking I'll see him when I go downstairs. But I'm much better now. The worst I could imagine is done, and I think I'm stronger for it.


Sometimes I go out to visit his grave. I bring an airplane bottle of Jim Beam for both of us. I remember when I was a kid that he had a couple of shots after each dinner to aid with digestion. The first hard alcohol I ever drank was Jim Beam because I trusted his judgment, and I was right to do so.


I'd sit at the grave and visit with him. I'd pop the tops off of each bottle, and I would pour his onto his side of the grave while I drank my own.


Those who know me very well know that I hold alcohol to be sacred. This should tell you how much I valued Gramps in my life. I poured perfectly good whiskey onto the ground in honor of him.


God, I miss him. I miss him so much.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #203: GOODBYE TO THE PAST

I remember when I was a kid the only booze I was exposed to was Jim Beam mostly because of my grandfather. It was his drink of choice. Every night he'd built his own sub sandwich and top it off with shots of Jim Beam. Later my stepfather would keep a bottle of Jim Beam for night whenever he got off of work. He held a lot of different jobs because he kept getting fired. He was a scientist when I first met him, but he worked as a cabbie for a while and he worked at a paint store and so on and so forth. But that bottle remained the same.

As a result my first taste of booze as a discerning adult was Jim Beam. I stuck to what I liked at first, but when I saw the variety available I jumped in. I quickly discovered Wild Turkey 101 within the first year it was released, and I fell in love. It's been my favorite ever since. I think Booker's is even better, but it's too expensive for me to drink more than maybe once every two years.

But Jim Beam will always have a place in my heart. Imagine my joy when a friend of mine inherited a bunch of booze from the 'Seventies a while back. One of them was the bottle of Jim Beam you see above.

He shared, for which I am eternally grateful. My fellow drunkards know that Jim Beam documents their family on the side of their bottle. Currently Jim Beam has seven faces on their label. The one my friend shared with me?

Five. How cool is that? Also I noticed something I'd never seen as a child because I didn't have enough booze knowledge. The original Jim Beam had a proof of 86. Today it has a proof of 80, which is the industry standard. When the fuck did this happen? I have a history of protesting Jack Daniel's because they quietly lowered their proof from 90 to 80, and when MODERN DRUNKARD called them out on it, they acted in a very snobby way. They were of the opinion that MDM didn't know what the fuck they were talking about because they weren't distillers. Well . . . the writers at MDM were your customers. I was, too. Not anymore.

Jim Beam quietly lowered their proof from 86 to 80. No one ever called them out on it, so they had no opportunity to respond in a snobby fashion. I searched the internet far and wide, but I've never been able to find an explanation. It's almost like it never happened. But I had the, uh, well. Proof. Sorry. I tried to avoid a pun, and there was no pun intended. There wasn't a way around it.

My friend gave me the bottle, and I had about an inch left at the bottom. Vintage Jim Beam. I intended to save it for a special occasion. Earlier this week, however, I decided to down it. I'm going on a road trip tomorrow that could be a great help to my writing career, and I decided to celebrate.

The thing is, no one is likely to drink vintage Jim Beam from here on out. It's all been drunk, right? It was the end of an era. Whenever I do something I know is going to be the passing of a way of life I like to listen to my favorite song in the world. I don't listen to it often because I don't want it to wear out. As your physician I recommend you follow suit.

How was it? It fucking burned so hard I had to flinch. I'm used to high proof booze, but this had nothing to do with potency. They used to make booze with a tougher bite. It reminded me of something else. It tasted a lot like Jim Beam Black. Surprise! JBB is 86 proof. Hm . . . The only difference is that what I drank had a sting that the Black doesn't have. The closest you can get to the classic is JBB, though. I highly recommend it.

Remember when booze had a sticker as a seal instead of a plastic ring?

Oh yeah. Those were the days. It's making a comeback, but no one is confident enough to abandon the plastic ring in such situations.

Goddam. That one inch of vintage Jim Beam was fucking awesome. Sorry folks. I was the last to have it. I'm tempted to mention a story of mine from a while back about a similar thing. Ah hell, the magazine is out of print, so it's not really a plug. It was in THE BRACELET CHARM Winter 2010. "From the Vineyard of Eden." A private investigator is hired by a snob to procure a bottle of wine on auction. This wine was made thousands of years ago from the grapes of the literal Eden. This guy had a hard-on for the oldest alcoholic beverage known to humanity. Spoiler alert: when he finally got it, it tasted like shit, but he'd lied to himself enough so that he believed it was the best ever.

But this Jim Beam I'm talking about? It really was good. It's better than I can explain here. I wish you could all taste it.

But it was only one inch, and unlike my friend, I'm pretty stingy when it comes to once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Sorry. But take my word for it, it was fucking awesome.

HEY FUCKERS #24: THE MURDERERS' NATIONAL DRINK

Before we go any further, you should read this. Nothing I say here will make any sense without it, and it's a pretty short and entertaining read.


Now: to business. I have never had Wild Irish Rose, although I've kept an eye out for it thanks to the above mentioned article. Someone asked me to buy wine last night, and while I was looking for what she wanted I found, in a dusty and forgotten corner of my usual liquor store, three bottles of WIR. It's a four day weekend. I would be a fool not to try it.


When I got home, I cracked the seal and smelled the neck. It smelled like wine, all right. Nothing special. I took down a mouthful (because something tells me the only way to drink this stuff is to drink it directly from the bottle), and JESUS GOD! This vile swill tried to poison me! It's horrible, horrible shit. But it's cheap shit. I got a fifth for five bucks, and that's cheaper than the cheapest vodka Mom ever had me go out and buy when I was younger. Despite its cheapness, I would never waste alcohol. The last time I felt like this was when I got Bacardi's 151 rum, and it tasted so godawful I wouldn't drink it straight. I could barely tolerate it mixed in Coke. I might as well have drank gasoline straight from the pump. But goddammit, I didn't waste it, and I wasn't going to waste this WIR.


I drank half of the bottle, and I didn't even have a buzz. I never get a buzz when drinking wine. My system is used to high proof bourbons. However, WIR has an exceptionally high (for wine) proof of 34. I should have felt something kick in. No dice. I gave up and switched to the half of a fifth of Jim Beam I have on hand for just such emergencies.


That's when I discovered the true power of WIR. It's not something you can get drunk on, not really, but if you need your pump primed before you move on to something that WILL get you drunk? This is what you need. I soared with the goddam bats once I'd finished that bottle of Jim Beam. The Jim Beam alone would have given me a nice buzz, but on top of the WIR I felt like a god king. I was bulletproof, and I didn't really want to horsewhip someone with my dick, but goddammit, I could have.


I've been working on a story for a top secret anthology for a while now, but I just couldn't get into the right mind space for it. It involves being able to get into a specific person's head, but God broke the mold when He made this man. What I was working on just felt like a pale imitation . . . until last night. WIR and Jim Beam propelled me into his head, and I'll be goddammed if I didn't THINK like him. I sent out posts and texts, and it wasn't me. I was possessed by this man. And I got the best writing on this project I've done so far. And now I can't get HIM out of ME.


I still have half the bottle of WIR left, and I have a shit-ton of whiskey. When the proper holiday is over, I think it's time to rock and roll.

IT'S A SPIRIT, GET IT?! A whiskey review of Jacob's Ghost

The first thing one notices about Jim Beam’s new whiskey, Jacob’s Ghost, is its clarity. Unlike other whiskies, this one is clear, like vodka. It’s a hard idea to get into one’s head, but it’s certainly unusual. Next, it has a remarkable looking label. “Ghost” is the biggest word on the label, and just under it is a giant depiction of Jacob Beam, the first face you’ll see on the side of a regular bottle of Beam. Look very closely, and you’ll notice his eyes move. No, you don’t need to be drunk to see it.

As with their other specialties, this one has a story on the label as well. It reads, “Jacob’s Ghost celebrates the ‘spirit’ of Jim Beam’s founding distiller, Jacob Beam—by refining the clear whiskey he first distilled in 1795. Jacob’s Ghost is clear, but it isn’t Moonshine or un-aged White Dog. It’s a special whiskey, aged at least one year in white oak barrels and crafted by our master distillers with over 200 years of Beam tradition to be uniquely versatile and flavorful.” Very cool.

However, upon opening the bottle, suspicion immediately sets in. It smells exactly like the phony moonshine that is so popular right now. Tasting it does not dispel this suspicion. It’s just a little bit smoother, despite a more pronounced after-burn. This is probably because the Ghost is aged an entire year instead of just a month.

At least Beam didn’t decide to jump on the awful phony moonshine bandwagon. They won’t sully their reputation by doing that. They just call it white whiskey, and they should be applauded for their lack of pretension. It’s a shame that it’s just not that great a whiskey. If you’re looking for something better than the regular Beam, go with the Devil’s Cut or the black label.

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.