Salutations
So I've been compelled under duress, threat, and coercion to put words to paper. I've been given no specific guidance as to what would be pleasing, or at very least, what would be inoffensive to the listening audience. So with that, let me tell you the tale of how I came to possess the power of drunken composition, or, at the very least, careful drunken editing.
Ol' Shep lives in Wisconsin. Stereotypes would most likely lead you to believe that at least the drunken half of my powers originated here; and you would not be wrong in that assumption. However, my tale begins in the Ted Nugent fever dream known as North Florida. I lived in Gainesville for half a decade in my later 20's/early 30's while my bride learned her p's and q's at UF. I worked in the school district of Suwannee County. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the geography of North Florida, Suwannee County is approximately equidistant from Gainesville and Tallahassee. This relationship is represented below:
Fig 1: Book Learnin'
Fig 2: GER GERTERS!
Now that you're aware of the situation within which this Yank found himself, you will be happy to know that the locals took to me fondly, and christened me with endearing southern nicknames. My favorite of which came from the Elementary School principal. A former Gator linebacker who was some sort of blend between Conway Twitty and the least murdery parts of The Bible. After learning that I was a Wisconsin man, he took to calling me PSYCHOBADGER SHEP! Every day I would hear him call me down to the office (there aren't phones in North Florida) by hollering "PSYCHOBADGER SHEP! YIPSHAWWWWW!" which I think was his way of offering me his daughter's hand in southern matrimony (there aren't any phones in southern matrimony).
I came to be friends with some of the local boys, who had inexplicably left this blighted 30 mile scar in the landscape to go to college, only to return and challenge the local notion that the earth was only 400 years old and perched on the mustache of Stonewall Jackson. We would gather together on Friday nights and consume copious amounts of bourbon while I was given a crash course on the subtle romanticism of southern rock. On one of these occasions after consuming a particularly strong bottle of Buffalo Trace (the finest), we were visited by the ghost of Charles Bukowski, who rode, what must have been at least an F4 twister. After knocking down the tobacco shed, Mr. Bukowski stumbled off his steed and made his way to our humble fire, where he intended to relieve us of whatever bourbon we had on our persons. Well, dead alcoholic anti-hero warrior poet or no, our ragtag crew was not going to give up our stash so easily. Charles was quite clearly still drunk, which is quite a thing, considering he's been dead for some time now. He lurched toward us but lost his footing and found himself sprawled in that sharp-ass grass that only grows in the worst parts of the south. It was at that point that my friend Wade, in a giggling fit, relieved Mr. Bukowski of his faithful twister steed and rode off in the direction of the nearest boiled peanut stand. In a fit of rage, Charles stumbled after him, hollering unintelligible curses as he followed.
Hmm...I just realized that this doesn't have anything to do with being able to write drunk. Heh. Made me laugh to beat the band, though. Parts anyway.
Now that you're aware of the situation within which this Yank found himself, you will be happy to know that the locals took to me fondly, and christened me with endearing southern nicknames. My favorite of which came from the Elementary School principal. A former Gator linebacker who was some sort of blend between Conway Twitty and the least murdery parts of The Bible. After learning that I was a Wisconsin man, he took to calling me PSYCHOBADGER SHEP! Every day I would hear him call me down to the office (there aren't phones in North Florida) by hollering "PSYCHOBADGER SHEP! YIPSHAWWWWW!" which I think was his way of offering me his daughter's hand in southern matrimony (there aren't any phones in southern matrimony).
I came to be friends with some of the local boys, who had inexplicably left this blighted 30 mile scar in the landscape to go to college, only to return and challenge the local notion that the earth was only 400 years old and perched on the mustache of Stonewall Jackson. We would gather together on Friday nights and consume copious amounts of bourbon while I was given a crash course on the subtle romanticism of southern rock. On one of these occasions after consuming a particularly strong bottle of Buffalo Trace (the finest), we were visited by the ghost of Charles Bukowski, who rode, what must have been at least an F4 twister. After knocking down the tobacco shed, Mr. Bukowski stumbled off his steed and made his way to our humble fire, where he intended to relieve us of whatever bourbon we had on our persons. Well, dead alcoholic anti-hero warrior poet or no, our ragtag crew was not going to give up our stash so easily. Charles was quite clearly still drunk, which is quite a thing, considering he's been dead for some time now. He lurched toward us but lost his footing and found himself sprawled in that sharp-ass grass that only grows in the worst parts of the south. It was at that point that my friend Wade, in a giggling fit, relieved Mr. Bukowski of his faithful twister steed and rode off in the direction of the nearest boiled peanut stand. In a fit of rage, Charles stumbled after him, hollering unintelligible curses as he followed.
Hmm...I just realized that this doesn't have anything to do with being able to write drunk. Heh. Made me laugh to beat the band, though. Parts anyway.
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