Ralph Steadman, �Still Life With Bottle�
Yikes. I can�t even begin to tell you how many coolness points I�ve lost over the last few days. The other night, I was reading a Kerouac novel, and it what can only be described as a desperate attempt to get my mind off the fact that I was reading a Kerouac novel, I started to get an idea for a story that I should write. At first I thought, �hey, that�s a good idea!� and then went back to the book.
But the story idea kept interfering, and I soon noticed I was thinking more about the story I was thinking of, then the story I was reading. Finally, deciding that what I thought of was too good to forget, I wrote out the outline. Then I tried to return to the book.
It didn�t work. The story kept knocking on my brain: �Hey! Pay attention!� my brain said. I decided that I needed to write the story, never mind that I�ve only read seven books this month. The story line wouldn�t let up in my head.
Now, what makes this instance bad is that I had thought up a daredevil story line for the comics. I don�t know shit about the comic industry, but I suddenly felt like the story was too good to pass up, and I put the book aside and called Alex. Alex had asked me a long time ago to write story lines for him, which he would then do the artwork. So I called him and pitched my idea, which I said I would then pitch to Marvel. He agreed, and I sat down to write.
Six hours later, it was six in the morning, and I was still typing. My mother had called the day before during the heat wave, offering to take me to a movie, since this was the kind of weather that kills old people. I accepted, ready to die myself.
�How about 28 Days Later?� I asked.
�What�s that?�
�It�s about zombies.�
�No.�
Yeah, but these zombies aren�t like the Michael Jackson zombies, they can actually run after you...�
�No.�
�Okay, how about Hulk?�
�No.�
�The Italian Job?�
�What�s that about?�
�Crime and car chases.�
�No.�
And so, being that this is the summer movie season and all, we decided to see a documentary on kids entering a spelling bee contest. And to my amazement, the movie was really good. But still — staying up all night to write a script for a comic book only to see a movie about a spelling bee contest the next day felt like I was pushing the geek factor. And then I went to work, checked eBay, and suddenly found myself the winner of a six-foot daredevil display.
In less than 48 hours, I had written a script for a comic book, watched (and enjoyed) a documentary on a fucking spelling bee, and bought a six foot display of Daredevil. I needed to repent. And the only way I could properly repent was to do some serious Drinking, Fucking, and Fighting.
And what better way to accomplish these all of these goals than with whiskey?
Here�s a big shocker for you � I like whiskey. I like whiskey a lot. In fact, I�m drinking whiskey right now as I type this, and it�s my second pint glass of the stuff. I know I�m no connoisseur, but I�ve narrowed down the ones that I like. Unfortunately, I also have to narrow it down to what I can afford. I love Jim Beam. I also am fond of Seagrams, mostly because of the price factor. Jack is great, but usually too rich for my blood, mostly because I go through a lot of whisky on these late night writing (and drinking) binges.
I�ve had a lot of people complain when I pick up Southern Comfort saying it�s too sweet, but I never noticed. I totally avoid the bottom of the barrel whiskeys like Burly Times and Old Granddad because they make my head feel like it�s going to explode the next day. But I do enjoy these late nights with my pint glass, my huge bottle of whisky, and the case of coke I keep in my bedroom.
Yes, I have had many of the better whiskies, the best of which always seem to start with �Glen.� In Belfast, Mr. Sleepy and I spent a half-hour trying to decipher a drunken Irishman for a good whiskey. It was Powers. And it was a damn good whisky.
While staying in England, my host family and I would spend several nights a week going to the local pub, only to continue the drunken revelry late into the night when we returned home. Philip, my host father, never drank at home, but he always threw a fit when his wife sneaked away, only to return with a whiskey bottle for me to drink from.
�Not my Glenfiddich!� he�d cry. You�re going to waste my whiskey on this boy? Good god woman, that�s like giving pearls to a pig!�
Yeah, I got along with these people pretty well.
But even with my fondness of whiskey, I usually mix it with coke, which probably disqualifies me from being a person to judge good whiskey. I just like the way it slowly creeps up, warming first your stomach, then your neck, and then fogging your head. You don�t have to drink bottle after bottle (like beer), you don�t have to finish it before it gets warm (like beer), and you don�t have to make trip after trip to the store or the bathroom (like beer).
I don�t, however, like whiskey enough to have to read a book about it. Unless that book is written by Ralph Steadman, most known as the artist behind Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
In this book Steadman, through his art and his words, details the history of whiskey; how to make it, the attempted prohibition of it by the British, and the Scotsmen who said bullocks to all that. For the most part he pulls this off pretty well, and it goes without saying (though I�ll still say it) that his art is amazing.
But for the first time I can remember from reading a Ralph Steadman book, this also comes off as very disjointed at times. It�s almost as if Ralph sampled a bit too much of the stuff before writing about it. There are long tangents, intentional misspellings, and many non sequiturs. After awhile his writing style became reminiscent of the old drunk that I always seem to get stuck next to at the bar, who will talk and talk without making any attempt to make sense.
And since I just finished my second glass, maybe I should shut up now as well.
