A Mosey Down Copperhead Road

I've been toying with the idea of trying something like this in the recent past.  Doing a deep dive into the lyrics of some of the songs that I enjoy.  Try to makes some sense of it all, because on closer inspection, some of the shit I enjoy, musically, doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  Or maybe it does and I'm just blowing smoke out of my ass.  Who the hell knows?  First up, is Steve Earle's 1988 classic, "Copperhead Road".  I constantly hear it on the radio, and I enjoy it as much as I'm sick of hearing it.  Now sit back and enjoy my idiocy for a moment.  Maybe this will work.  Most likely it won't.  That's my confidence level, at this juncture.

Main character is John Lee Pettimore, the third.  Saying it this way, makes him sound more distinguished than the penniless shlub that he actually is.  He comes from a long line of moonshiners who concoct their swill up the holler down a local road called Copperhead Road.  A busy life, making moonshine.  So busy that John's grandfather, John Lee Pettimore the first, only makes it into town a couple of times a year.  Not a real people person, I guess.  Doesn't possess the gift of gab and gets annoyed making small talk with strangers.  Or I presume, anyway.

This aspect of the song reminds me of when I worked at Princess Auto.  I'm sorry to get off topic, but it's only for a moment and I think it's pertinent in some way.  I was working one day when this kid, maybe 16 or 17 in age, asked me a question.  I gave him a quick answer, but he looked confused.  He explained that he came from a wee little town and never made it into the city more than maybe once a year.  Inquisitive as I am, I had to ask where he came from.  Delisle, he said.  Instantly I figured he was full of shit.

Delisle is a small town, yes, but it's like twenty minutes from the city and it barely has anything in it.  A Co-op gas station, a hotel bar, where me and my pal used to get hammered and stumble back to his place. The town also has a liquor store - IN the Esso gas station on the sound end of town.  "Don't Drink & Drive, but IF you do, you may as well fill your gas tank up over here, too, while you buy your booze!"  There may be a golf course, too.  Anyway, there's f*ck all in Delisle and the idea that a family can self-sustain in a tiny armpit of a town like this, is a complete farce to me.

When John's grandfather did peek his head out from Copperhead Road, he'd grab  the shit he needed then f*ck off back to the woods to continue perfecting his craft.  Granddaddy must've been making some serious cash, as a revenue man came to town seeking the man out.  Wanted to ask him a few questions, I guess, about where he was getting all this money to pay for copper line and yeast, I suppose, and followed the man down Copperhead Road.  It was well before John Pettimore III was even a twinkle in his daddy's eye, but apparently, the tax man never returned from Copperhead Road and no formal investigation was ever commenced.  Guess the Pettimores wielded a serious sword in town.

The next generation to follow in granddaddy's footsteps was John Lee Pettimore, Jr.  I don't know what his father, John Lee Pettimore, Sr was running his shine in, but it must have been shit compared to what John Jr was about to bring to the table.  John went to a state sale and bought himself an old Johnson County Sheriff's car.  A big block Dodge that he and his brother rebuilt the engine on, to go even faster than it's original output, then shot a coat of primer on it to cover up the Sheriff's badging on the outside.  I always thought it would have been smarter to keep the badging, to throw off anyone suspecting them of running booze.  What do I know, though.  I'm not a criminal so I can't possibly understand the criminal mind.

Well, unbeknownst to the Pettimore clan, there was a raid on Copperhead Road and in his haste to escape, via his new-to-him Dodge, John Jr crashed and died.  You could see the red glow of the burning moonshine for miles and the smell of burning whiskey filled the air.  It was quite a sight, I'm sure.  John Lee Pettimore III wasn't filled with awe from the spectacle, but with concern.  Concern for his mother who got the news from the local sheriff that her husband, Little Johnny's dad, had succumbed in the crash.  Poor kid.  The only role model he ever had, a shitty one, but a role model all the same, was now gone.  What was the boy to do?

Two options to do in a small southern town, when you're as dirt poor as the Pettimores were.  Commit petty crimes and get your ass incarcerated or join the army and head to Vietnam.  John III chose the latter, citing that he would have been drafted anyway.

John doesn't move up the ranks of the army, while stationed in Vietnam, but he managed to keep his head down, do the job that needed to be done and survived two tours of duty.  All the while, he's keeping mental notes of the guerilla warfare tactics of Charlie.  Tactics and strategies that he'd later put into practice when he returned home after the war.

Ditching the efforts of making moonshine, which wasn't a lucrative business, anymore, John III decided to start growing marijuana.  Having never learned the art of making good moonshine, anyway, growing the herb by combining the seeds from Colombia and Mexico, then plant it in the rich earth up the holler down Copperhead Road, where his father and grandfather had their successes with the moonshine. Now, through some hard work and very little tears, John was able to make a strain so sweet, so good that it took America by storm and made him a rich man.

Johns success didn't fall on deaf eyes, though.  Much like in the past when the State police raided his father's stash down Copperhead Road, the U.S. D.E.A. (Drug Enforcement Agency) began flying choppers overhead, spying on the operation, trying to get eyes through the thick brush that lined Copperhead Road.  Did they dare send troops in on foot?  If they did, they were in for a hell of a surprise.  John Lee Pettimore III wasn't the stupid country bumpkin they perceived him to be.  He didn't just come home and stumble onto a fortune in the weed business.  He put some heavy thought into the operation and he wasn't going to lose this shit without a serious fight and in fight mode he was.  Suffering from PTSD from his time in Vietnam, the constant barrage of choppers flying overhead, John was having nightmares.  He was prepared to put up a good resistance.

Song ends before we find out the conclusion of the DEA's involvement, but rest assured, some of the DEA's foot soldiers likely wouldn't be walking right after that invasion, if they were able to walk at all.

This concludes my breakdown of "Copperhead Road".  Not as amusing as I'd originally concocted, but for a first effort, it might be....  Meh.

Lyrics

One, two, three, four

Well, my name's John Lee Pettimore
Same as my daddy and his daddy before
I hardly ever saw grandaddy down here
He only came to town about twice a year
Buy a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line
Everybody knew that he made moonshine

Now the revenue man wanted grandaddy bad
Headed up the holler with everything he had
It's before my time but I've been told
He never came back from Copperhead Road

Now daddy ran the whiskey in a big block Dodge
Bought it at an auction at the mason's lodge
Johnson county sheriff painted on the side
Shot a coat of primer then he looked inside
Well, him and my uncle tore that engine down
I still remember that rumblin' sound

Then the sheriff came around in the middle of the night
Heard mama cryin', knew something wasn't right
Headed out to Knoxville with the weekly load
You could smell the whiskey burnin' down Copperhead Road

Volunteered for the army on my birthday
Draft the white trash first 'round here anyway
Done my two tours of duty in Vietnam
I came home with a brand new plan
I take the seed from Colombia and Mexico
Just plant it up the holler down Copperhead Road

Now the D.E.A's got a chopper in the air
Wake up screaming like I'm back over there
Learned a thing or two from Charlie don't you know
You better stay away from Copperhead Road

Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road

Thank you

Mumbo Jumbo

Went out with a friend today.  The day started out nice, visiting one of the new Halloween stores in town.  My feet have been hurting a lot, as of late, with the cooler weather, but the warm temperatures today proved worthwhile for this outing.

We trekked around looking at this and that, before moving on to our next destination where we did some grocery shopping.  Her for her household, me for mine.  Then we had a quick lunch right there.

In an effort to eat up as much time before going to pick up her boyfriend from work, we visited a couple more destinations, looking for Halloween stuff that she could incorporate into a costume.  She's very creative and sometimes likes to bounce ideas off of me.  I don't mind as I like the creative aspect without any of the follow-up of having to do the work.  It's like taking pride in the finished product without having any of the headaches or callouses of putting the piece together.

As well as I was feeling in the beginning of our adventure, the time on my feet was beginning to take it's toll on me.  I eventually found myself limping a little, as my feet began to swell.  My midsection was beginning to hurt some, as I'd had surgery a couple of weeks ago and I'm still having some issues with that healing process.  Most annoyingly, I began to get a headache.

I tend to get a lot of headaches, come autumn, and they only grow more frequent and intense as the winter months engulf us.  This particular headache I could feel mustering behind my eyeball.  These ones tend to get real bad, real quick.  But I didn't want to say anything, because my friend was having a good time and I didn't wish to spoil her outing.  I never mentioned anything until we began our journey homeward.

"I would offer you something, if I had anything." she said, to which I told her it was okay.  I explained that I had the same Ibuprofen that she had in her trunk, a purchase she'd made earlier in the day.  "I'll simply take four or five of them, when I get home.... With a shot of bourbon!"

She was shocked, immediately warning me off of such a terrible action, citing that booze and medication should never be mixed.  "Bah!" I said, "That's just nonsense."

She went on to tell me that I should never mix alcohol with medication, to which I gave her my explanation and to tell the truth, while I was just blowing smoke out my ass, the logic is present and I think I may actually believe my own hype...

"That's just big pharmaceutical who warns against mixing medication with alcohol.  You never see alcohol companies warning 'Don't drink this with pain meds'."   I paused for a moment, thinking about the words that just spilled from my mouth and yeah...  No alcohol companies say that.  So I have to believe that it's like the marijuana thing, where the booze companies launched negative campaigns to render cannabis as an illicit "drug", so too are big pharmaceutical companies making similar claims against alcohol, exemplifying that it can't fix any of the problems that medication can. (Which makes a person curious as to why they speak against the positives of marijuana.)

"Besides," I added, "The alcohol just gives it that extra -- Ba-BAAMM!!  The Ibuprofen works fine, but the bourbon acts as a turbo boost!  Thrusts it into your system so much quicker."

Big pharmaceutical claims that medication should not be mixed with alcohol, but they make the same claim that shit should be taken with food and despite not following those instructions, I've never been affected negatively in that way, either.  It's a lot of hooey.  Verbal mumbo jumbo meant to put fear into people so they have to rely more heavily on their meds.  Unless you're a raging alcoholic, then I say there's no harm in pouring yourself a nice stiff drink to chase down the pain meds.  It'll fix whatever ails you.

CHEERS!!

How Does Paper Beat Rock?

I have a friend who used to be a professional Rock, Paper, Scissors athlete.  He was ranked in the Top Five Worldwide and better than that in just North America.  He was very successful, making tons of cash with endorsement deals and alike, then all at once, his luck ran out and it all slipped away.  Flushed down the proverbial toilet faster than an unwanted turd.  Public opinion's "rock" trumped his "scissors".

What struck him down in his prime?  Was it the constant rumours of steroid abuse?  He, of course, denied all the accusations and passed every test thrown his way.  No.  It was the booze and the whores.  The wrong kind of women can get a man in trouble, especially a guy riding high on the successful wings of the World Series of Paper, Rock, Scissors.  A man left with no moral support, but for those left way back at home, is apt to do some foolish things.  I've done a great many stupid thing, and I've not had the luck of an athletic career or a huge bank roll to feed my foolishness.  All my stupidity has been done for free.  However, I'm straying from the topic, for which I apologize.

Despite his short-comings, he's learned many, albeit harsh, life-lessons and has grown to be a much better person, both mentally and spiritually, from it.  Today, he can be found coaching young up-and-comers in the strategy game play that is Paper, Rock, Scissors.  It is his vast experience in this sport that I found comfort in exploring one of the greatest mysteries bestowed upon this world:  How the f*ck does paper beat rock?!?

Paper doesn't hurt unless you have an actual newspaper press roll, which I've learned weighs in at about a metric ton.  That roughly translates out to about a small sedan, which I've had the displeasure of rolling over my foot, once upon a time.  Not a pleasant experience, let me tell you.  Then again, I'm reminded of a particular skit from the first Jackass movie, in which many of the guys were volunteering to get paper cuts between their toes, fingers and even a mouth or two.  In my experience as a receiver of products from abroad, some paper can slice you open like a f*cking shiv, and that my friends, hurts even more than a Chevy Cavalier running over my foot.

Paper, however, cannot cut through a frickin' rock.  Not even that shitty paper from India and China that cut me open so often.  So once more, I'm left asking myself: How the f*ck does paper beat rock?