Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered Ian Harris at Futureappletree Too
The way that Whiskey Myers speaks to me is by indirectly suggesting that I'm doing it all wrong. I've come to appreciate these mild summer temperatures too much. The sweat should be pissing out of me. I should stink and stick by quittin' time. I need a little more physical discomfort. I've been taking too good of care of my backyard lawn. I should be letting it grow wild, go to seed -- get scraggly and weedy, tall and overrun. It should be an eyesore. It should be a disgrace that I could care less about. The right thing to do would be to throw in the towel, toss a man-sized inflatable pool back there under the shade and fill it full-to-overflowing with Jack and just float around and drink it dry -- suck it right on down to floor plastic. Why sweat trimming any of that stuff back there? Just convert it into a soft bed for the pool to rest on and then throw some rocks into a pile, or some semblance of a cooking pit where we can roast things good and slow, as we're shotgunning as many beers as our bellies can hold? We're worried about the wrong things. We should be working on getting fat and hairy. We should be riding deep into nights, sleeping in and getting up and doing it all over again. We should be fishing all day long (more beers) and we should be thankful that we're not having to live like those other sorry losers just getting older and sadder chasing money and not mud holes and ass.