Da Nose Knows! The Top 10 Cocaine Songs of all Time! (Part One)

Given the theme of our book, "The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death and Other True Tales of Drunken Debauchery" (also newly available at Barnes and Noble, Tower Books, and other fine retailers), we here at the SharkGuys.com have focused most of our postings on that most legal of intoxicants, booze.

But does that mean that we are against other substances that are capable of lifting one from this mundane world into a place that is much improved by chemicals, or that we would cast aspersions on those who enjoy the pleasures of say mescaline, or a bite at the ole gypsum weed (you can remember the effects of the latter using this handy mnemonic device courtesy of Wikipedia: "blind as a bat, mad as a hatter, red as a beet, hot as hell, dry as a bone, the bowel and bladder lose their tone, and the heart runs alone")? Of course not.

And what do you do after a night on the lager when you feel as if one more beer will leave you putting on a colorful display of emotion over the nearest gutter? Well, if you are in a place that has the right level of sleaze, you can simply wink to some likely individual and enjoy a line off the back of your house key in some dank alley. Spirits lifted, the night can go on.

Cocaine of course has had a significant impact on popular music. While booze is far more likely to result in sloppy work and an unsightly beer gut in middle age, coke leaves you wired enough to ensure that you will produce a whole lot of something, and thus ups the odds that you will actually produce something good.

Keith Richards may have fallen out of a tree in Fiji while out of his gourd on other than vitamin supplements, but he is what rock n' roll is all about: debauchery. And, while a sober Eric Clapton was quoted as saying, "I hate listening to my old records, which I did stoned or drunk,"he’s alone in that camp as most fans of his music hate listening to anything that he’s done straight.

Keith Richards entire career, Neil Young’s coked out performance at “The Last Waltz”, Stevie Nicks having built up such a tolerance to cocaine that she had to have it blown up her rectum to get a high (this never happened, apparently, but is nonetheless one of the more entertaining urban legends), cocaine use is an integral part of the rock-star lifestyle. It’s what young boys dream about: One day, if I practice enough and work on perfecting my skills as a singer-songwriter, I too will be able to snort cocaine off of the breasts of a vacant-eyed stripper whose name I’ll forget before I’m back on the tour bus and liquidating a savings account by mobile phone to settle debts with unsavory characters.

Here we have compiled a list of the Top 10 Cocaine Songs of all time -- songs about, influenced by, and more than likely written on clouds of Peruvian marching powder:

10) "Bales of Cocaine", by The Reverend Horton Heat: In this one, the good Reverend regales us with the modern day parable of a farmer out in his field pulling corn and carrots "when two low-flying aeroplanes, 'bout a hundred feet high/dropped a bunch o' bales o' somethin', some hit me in the eye". The farmer cuts the bales open and notices a mysterious powder inside. Being a rube, for whom presumably white lightnin' is still the biggest thrill in town, he has no idea what it is and brings it to his "Crazy Brother Joe": "He sniffed it up and kicked his heels, said, 'Horton, that's some blow!'" Our lucky farming friend then heads into Dallas, becomes a millionaire by selling his find, ditches his farm in Texas and buys another in Peru. Think of it like the Bill Paxton movie "A Simple Plan", only a whole lot happier and without Billy Bob Thornton in the role of a mouth-breather. We can safely assume that at some later point in this farmer's life the drug dealers whose fortune he stole would have tracked him down and introduced him to the latest in Columbian necktie attire, however, for taking a different angle on the cocaine song and for its appreciation of the entrepreneurial spirit, we salute the Reverend Horton Heat and include "Bales of Cocaine" on our Top 10 Cocaine Songs of All Time list:

Bales of cocaine, fallin' from low-flyin' plane
I don't know who done dropped 'em, but I thank 'em just the same
Bales of cocaine, fallin' like a foreign rain
My life changed completely by the low-flyin' planes

9) "Lit up" by Buckcherry: This is a song that needs to wipe its nose before returning to the dinner table. With two founding members who met in a tattoo parlor and bonded over their mutual love of AC/DC, Buckcherry exemplifies the type of hard rockin' lifestyle that has enriched many a well-connected roadie. A song meant more for the mosh-pit than for lyrical analysis, this one is interesting though for the number of places in which the narrator gets "lit up". They include: a plane, his couch, his bed, on a train and backstage somewhere with a groupie knocking, "Crack the door for the curious girl cuz she's waitin' she's been waitin'..." And fulfilling the age-old maxim that all bands who look like this will eventually do something that reminds one of Spinal Tap, we get a replay of the classic, "It goes up to 11" bit of dialogue in the following bit of verse: "I'm in touch love, from this crutch/Well you're on ten but buddy I'm on eleven".

"I'm on a plane With cocaine And yes I'm all lit up again"

8) "My Michelle" by Guns 'n' Roses: "I don't do cocaine anymore. Well, only occasionally," GNR guitarist Slash, 1992. Long before the band broke up and Axl Rose set about attempting to strangle whatever bit of fan support they had with the "Chinese Democracy" debacle, the Gunners were at the forefront of cocaine-fueled hard rock with Appetite For Destruction, and "My Michelle" was one of their best. The Michelle in the song actually existed. She knew the band and asked Axl to pen a tune for her. She did not get "Sweet Child Of Mine" treatment. This one tells a story of a hard-living woman whose "daddy works in porno/Now that mommy's not around/She used to love her heroin/but now she's in the ground." The song and the real-life story both have a happy ending, as, according to Slash's biography (which would no doubt require a snort of something illicit to get through), Michelle has since moved across the country and cleaned up her act.

"So you stay out late at night And you do your coke for free Drivin' your friends crazy With your life's insanity"

7) "That Smell" by Lynyrd Skynyrd: Though better known for penning that motet Sweet Home Alabama, heard if a case of Amstel Light, a $150 Yamaha guitar, a group of white people, or a campfire are within a 100-yard radius, Skynyrd is also known for this thoroughly unpleasantly titled opus: 'What's that smell?' being one of the worst questions you can ever hear uttered, along with 'Is anyone here a vegetarian?' A well-worn refrain when it comes to the rock 'n' roll lifestyle, members of the band were killed by over-consumption, but in this case, it was of fuel, at least according to the National Transportation Safety Board, who determined this caused their plane to take a nosedive into a Mississippi forest. This song references an earlier and less-killing crash involving guitarist Gary Rossington, whiskey, coke and an oak tree that would just not get out of the way.

"Whiskey bottles, and brand new cars
Oak tree you're in my way
There's too much coke and too much smoke
Look what's going on inside you

6) "Life in the Fast Lane", by The Eagles
With an obstructed view concert ticket to one of their performances costing in the range of your average eight-ball, The Eagles certainly know a thing or two about life in the fast lane, a song inspired by a road trip Glenn Frey took with a dealer named 'The Count'. In 'Hotel California', (a song so ubiquitous you can be wandering the rugged mountains of northern Laos and hear a villager who's otherwise had no contact with modernity, humming a few bars) there were 'mirrors were on the ceiling', and in this song, their paean to hard-living, they served a dual purpose other than a means to admire your feather mullet and creepy mustache.

"They threw outrageous parties, they paid heavenly bills
There were lines on the mirror, lines on her face"

CLICK HERE FOR PART TWO -- THE TOP FIVE COCAINE SONGS OF ALL TIME!

Crocodile Tears in your Beer: Aussie barflies get visit from baby croc

Those of us who grew up watching professional wrestling had, at one point or another, to come to terms with the fact that the stereotypes represented in the rasslin’ ring were a few metal folding-chair head-shots apart from reality. So when the wrestling world told us that Australia was comprised of a mix of people that were halfway between Outback Jack – a “Let’s capitalize on Crocodile Dundee’s popularity” 80s wrestler who lost more matches than he was in – and the Bushwackers, two toothless stereotypes, who marched around the ring, swinging their arms above their heads (see below -- it's a bit like power-walking, but with a lot more arm-swinging and cretinous head bobbing) in a fashion not encountered since one of us observed it replicated by a very drunk English football fan on the streets of Amsterdam.

(The Bushwackers, it should be noted for the sake of people who would lose sleep tonight if this correction were not made, were actually from New Zealand. The best way to upset a Kiwi? Tell them, “I love New Zealand. They filmed the Lord of the Rings movies there. It really is the most scenic part of Australia.” Australia is to New Zealand as the United States is to Canada and such jibes do not go down well as an American telling a Canadian in a foreign land, “Ah, what a relief to hear an American accent.”)

But surely this was all stuff and nonsense and actual life in Australia does not bear any actual resemblance to a bunch of people living out in the bush and making lasting friendships with the koala bears? Well, actually, no, the Bushwackers or their like might actually have been holding fort in the bar where the following took place.

Drinkers were enjoying an afternoon’s tipple at the Noonamah Tavern, located 25 miles (40 km) from the Northern Territory capital of Darwin, basically a point on the map marked with the label “Middle of Nowhere.”, when a baby salt-water crocodile, or “salty” in the local parlance, walked into a bar. No it wasn’t accompanied by a nun and a circus dwarf. Rather than being frightened by the site of this creature, that likes to when it’s full grown sink its chompers into anything from water buffaloes to humans, the drinkers taped its jaws shut and brought it inside for a photos.

The woman who tends bar said that having the wild kingdom stroll in for a jar of the good stuff wasn’t an unusual occurrence. “We've had a lot of horses pop up. We've had cane toads, which are yukky," she said. "We have had a big buffalo come in, wander around. There's a photo of him with a beer."

Since the creature is at home in saltwater and would have had to travel pretty far to reach the pub from such a habitat, the bartender reckons it was either dropped off there accidentally by a fisherman or as a practical joke. Regardless, the carousing croc escaped his brush with bush-country pub life and is now among his fellows at a local crocodile farm. (Full story here). (For more on crocs and the boozers who love them, check out this story from our archives).

Belgian Beer Bonanza! Cantillon Brewery Tour, Brussels

It's impossible to forget the first time your taste-buds are left smarting from a slap of Belgian beer.

Like most, I was weaned on traditional lager or pilsener, the kind of stuff 'Johnny Sixpack' might pick up in his, well, pick-up.

To make watching sporting events palatable, such as our failing local hockey team's perpetual first round exit from the playoffs, or as an adjunct to a post-work barbecue in someone's suburban backyard, our greatest concern was a six-pack that wouldn't tax the wallet---and would leave us comfortably under the $10-dollar mark to to grab a bag of Doritos and pay for the last bus of the night without having to scramble for change.

If any of these bargain garage sale suds strayed too far from having what we came later to realize was a distinctly "beer" finish, it wasn't uncommon to hear "it's got a bitter aftertaste" bellyaching. This was odd, given that whenever anyone would inhale a candy bar, you'd never hear a "isn't that a sweet aftertaste?"

Belgian beer, as I came to learn, not only has aftertaste, but a heady "before" and "during" taste as well, and furthermore, some types weren't bitter at all.

Like the first time I guzzled a Guinness and realized it wasn't a facsimile of orange juice, like a Corona, or the first time I took a belt of whiskey left out in the bedroom of an older acquaintance whose jail-bait sis was hosting a party for precocious 9th grade tipplers, I realized it was a flavor distinctly unlike I'd ever encountered.

Most people's experience with Belgian beer comes via Stella Artois, which goes to show just how damn spoiled the Belgians are as that is the worst beer they make.

However, their other, more interesting beers trace their origins back to monasteries from the Middle Ages, and the product was so damn good many a monk broke their vow of silence to say as much. Unlike a lager, where the yeast ferments at the bottom at cooler temperatures, or an ale, the opposite, where the bits of goodness rise to the top, Belgian 'Lambic' beers do so spontaneously within the bottle itself.

This is admittedly a bit weird, and leaves the drinker wondering if the little bits floating around in the bottom of the bottle aren't the result of the local bog water source, rather than natural springs. It's also closed with a cork, so that you couldn't give it to the guy who got straight A's in shop class to remove the cap with his teeth.

Lambic beers are also laid down like fine wine to age, and sparkle as well. One of the sub-types (Kriek) is given a second fermentation with sour cherries, and another (Gueuze), is sometimes called Brussels Champagne.

For a country with a population only slightly higher than that of New York City, Belgium has 125 breweries, and an eye-popping 1000 + brands. Having been recently wowed by fruit beers, not for sissies as it turns out as they often pack a 10 and 12% alcohol punch, I figured I'd make a beer pilgrimage to the land that makes, and it pains me to say this with a mother and grandparents who hail from Germany, the world's finest beer.

I visited the Cantillon brewery, and if anyone is interested reading more about the brewing process, you can do so here, as this is not the forum to bore you with minutiae.

-- Chris

For more Shark Guy travels, check out what happened to Ireland's supply of a certain stout called Beamish when Noel visited the Emerald Isle by clicking here.

Four Words We Didn't Want to Hear On TV: George Carlin is Dead

“Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.” George Carlin (1937-2008)

We were saddened to hear the news of the passing of George Carlin, a comedian who is to comedy what authors like JP Donleavy, Hunter S. Thompson etc., are to books. His humor was not the, “You ever notice how after you do a wash, there’s always that one sock missing? Where did it go? Let’s explore that theme for the next five insufferable minutes!” kind, or some similar bland inoffensive pap that is likely to get the teller a sitcom, but unlikely to challenge the person hearing the joke any more than the morning garden program on only-seniors-and-lunatics-are-up-at-this-godforsaken-hour weekend community radio.

Carlin was different. He challenged people with his comedy. He went to jail to challenge people with his comedy (the pictures above aren't film stills). Writing this blog today took a long time because we were continuously sidetracked by hilarious Carlin bits on everything from growing up Irish Catholic, to people who ought to be killed (Part One, Part Two), to a breakdown of the Ten Commandments that even Christopher Hitchens might have envied, and many other bits.

George Carlin is gone now but he has left a wealth of material behind him that will be howled at and, more importantly, thought about for years to come. Of course, we’re the kind of guys who do our best to lighten up any party, even a wake, so on that note we’ll leave you with some George Carlin quotes on drinking, partying, and the best analysis of Snow White's Seven Dwarfs that we've yet come across:

“And this should go without saying. That's why I'm going to say it: Drinking and driving don't mix. Do your drinking early in the morning and get it out of the way. Then go driving while the visibility is still good.
“Napalm and Silly Putty”

The radio ad said "Hi, I'm Jeff Healey from the Jeff Healey Band. Don't drink and drive. I don't." Well, I hope you don't drive sober either, Mr. Healey. You're blind, for God's sake!
"Ten Things That Piss Me Off"

[Relevant entries from] People I can do without. This is my list: A gynecologist who wants my wife to have three or four drinks before the examination…Girls who get drunk and throw up at breakfast… A cross-eyed nun with a bullwhip and a bottle of gin!
“What Am I Doing in New Jersey?”

The seven dwarfs were each on different little trips. Happy was into grass and grass alone... Happy, that's all he did. Sleepy was into reds. Grumpy. Too much speed. Sneezy was a full blown coke freak. Doc was a connection. Dopey was into everything. Any old orifice will do for Dopey. He's always got his arm out and his leg up. And then, the one we always forget, because he was, Bashful. Bashful didn't use drugs. He was paranoid on his own. Didn't need any help on that ladder.
"Nursery Rhymes", Toledo Window Box

Unsourced

“Instead of warning pregnant women not to drink, I think female alcoholics should be told not to fuck”

I think tobacco and alcohol warnings are too general. They should be more to the point: "People who smoke will eventually cough up small brown pieces of lung." And "Warning! Alcohol will turn you into the same asshole your father was."

"Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day."

"You never meet a wino with perfect pitch."

I'll bet there aren't too many people hooked on crack who can play the bagpipes.

"Let's stop underage drinking before it starts." Please explain this to me. It sounds tricky."

"When a masochist brings someone home from the bar, does he say, "Excuse me a moment, I'm going to slip into something uncomfortable"?

"When he got loaded, the human cannonball knew there were not many men of his caliber."

"I'd hate to be an alcoholic with Alzheimer's. Imagine needing a drink and forgetting where you put it. "

And on that note…

What is all this shit about angels? Have you heard this? Three out of four people now, believe in angels. What're you, fuckin' stupid? Has everybody lost their fuckin' minds in this country? Angels, shit. You know what I think it is? I think it's a massive collective psychotic chemical flashback of all the drugs - all the drugs - smoked, swallowed, snorted, shot, and absorbed rectally by all Americans from 1960 to 1990. Thirty years of adulterated street drugs'll get you some fuckin' angels, my friend.

"Angels", You Are All Diseased

I've begun worshipping the Sun for a number of reasons. First of all, unlike some other gods I could mention, I can see the Sun. It's there for me every day. And the things it brings me are quite apparent all the time: heat, light, food, reflections at the park... the occasional skin cancer, but hey. There's no mystery, no one asks for money, I don't have to dress up, and there's no boring pageantry. But I don't pray to the sun - it wouldn't be polite to presume on our friendship. You know who I pray to? Joe Pesci.

"There Is No God", You Are All Diseased (1999)

This conversation is bound to turn up. Two guys in a street meet each other and one of them says, "hey, did you hear? Phil Davis died". "Phil Davis? I just saw him yesterday." "Yeah, didn't help. He died anyway. Apparently, the simple act of you seeing him did not slow down his cancer. In fact, it may have made it more aggressive. You know, you could be the cause for Phil's Death, how, do you live with yourself?"

“It's Bad for Ya” (2008)

Goodbye Mr. Carlin, we salute you.

The Ginger Man Gets the Shark Book and Dublin's Calling me to the Pubs

“The GM [Ginger Man], by the way, had real balls, a rare thing in these twisted times. I heard the priests gave you a rough time with the stage version, but to hell with them. The church is on its last legs and if we deal them blow for blow I think we may prevail.”

Hunter S. Thompson in a letter (December 8, 1960) to JP Donleavy from “The Proud Highway”.

Reading the letter excerpted above while in j-school was how I first came to know the name JP Donleavy and what drove me to pick up “The Ginger Man” and continue on through most of the rest of the JP Donleavy catalogue. That Hunter S. Thompson of all people would take the time to write a fan letter to anybody – he was the kind of guy who writes letters to the cable company complaining about the inanity of shows like “Hee Haw” (he asked them how dare they bill him after broadcasting a “waterhead zoo” like that) not fan letters – meant that Donleavy was required reading.

Thompson, Bukowski, Vonnegut, George MacDonald Fraser (who we blogged about here), Mordecai Richler, all of the greats whose unsanitized works at points give you the impression of the writer actually cackling while getting it down, they’re all gone. Donleavy is one of the few still around. So when the notice came up via the authoritative and well maintained (by David Hartzheim) JP Donleavy Compendium (as close a thing as the good man has to an official website) that Mr. Donleavy was going to be the subject of a tribute at the Dublin Writer’s Festival, I could not pass up the opportunity to make my first trip to Erin’s Isle, take in the festival and make acquaintance with a few of that fine city’s pubs and pints in the process.

The Writer’s Festival presentation took the form of an interview of Mr. Donleavy (click here for the full interview) conducted by a Radio Ireland presenter named Vincent Woods interspersed with musical acts. The highlight of those was the singer-songwriter ISE (Pronounced ‘eesha’) who knocked the crowd out with her own note-perfect rendition of Patrick Kavanaugh's "On Raglan Road", a Donleavy favorite (he knew the American woman who inspired the song, "a young beauty"). Kavanaugh was a legendary Irish poet and when I complimented ISE on her performance after the show, she said, “Thanks, but I didn’t write it you know.” And, I thought that was fine because I’ve always admired the work of Van Morrison anyhow.

Donleavy is a fine storyteller and a great interview subject, and he told many stories, the best of them about the Irish legend and "Borstal Boy" author Brendan Behan (He did things, Donleavy recalled, that were "literally unspeakable"), read from the “Unexpurgated Code”, twice and the concluding paragraphs of The Ginger Man (you should listen to at least the final portion of the audio recording of the interview just to hear Donleavy in that unique accent, with its traces of New York and ringing of the old aristocracy, sound out, "And, God's Mercy on the Wild Gin-ger Man". Those looking for a Johnny Depp “Ginger Man” movie will be disappointed though. When asked if he thinks it will be made: “I doubt it. It’s so much more fun talking about it. When will it be made? It will never be made probably.” But, he did say that if it were made, he might want to expand the character based on Brendan Behan if Shane MacGowan played him, calling that a bit of perfect casting. Indeed, MacGowan wrote Streams of Whiskey about Behan and also based the title of his "Fairytale of New York" on an underrated and lyrically stunning novel of the same name by Donleavy. He's been rehearsing for Behan all his life.

Following the presentation, Donleavy signed books and it was then that I gave him a copy of our book The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death and Other True Tales of Drunken Debauchery (see first photo) and thanked him for Dangerfield, Darcy Dancer, Balthazar B. Schultz and the rest. He accepted graciously and we’re hoping it did not warm his tootsies at his estate in the Irish countryside that very evening. It was the highlight of a terrific trip from Dublin to Belfast and a few pubs in between.

In Dublin, a recommended spot is the friendly and lively Ivy House on Drumcondra. There you can find a pint of a heavenly stout that goes by the name of Beamish but is not commonly available worldwide. This is because it is so delicious and full bodied that its widespread consumption would likely lead to world peace, something the arms manufacturers would sadly never allow. Beamish is superior even to Guinness. In fact, a Dublin taxi driver told us of how he had been a long-time Guinness drinker at his local suburban pub, but that after tasting the Beamish while on a trip into the city, there was no going back. He petitioned his local barman in the suburbs to get it on tap and eventually he did. Beamish inspires that sort of loyalty in the people who drink it.

Ivy also offers a breakfast that won’t lead to your death in five years, which can’t be said of Fagan's, the local of former Irish PM Bertie "Ahem" Ahern, (he must be quite heartened every time he settles down to business in the stalls as about at eye level in one of them someone has scrawled the message, “I love Bertie.”). He is the youngest PM in Ireland’s history but he may not make it to his golden years if he starts his mornings by setting into one of that pub’s breakfasts which will stick in your gut like a rock until, that is, you find a pint of Beamish to pour onto it. (Said Beamish can be found at this pub which is, despite the overabundance of photos of a blarney-full Bill Clinton, a handsomely decorated and rich-with-character sort of place).

In Belfast, the pub of choice was Bittles, a triangular shaped bar lined with paintings of famous Irish writers -- see the Brendan Behan portrait above and 10 points if you're able to name all of the great Irish scribes in the painting to the left -- and poets (and, oddly, Che Guevera and Fidel Castro). All of them, attached picture of Behan included, were said to have been painted by the same local artist, though this information was presented by an elderly gentleman who seemed to have had a head start on that day’s drinking by several hours, if not days.

The pubs in Belfast were a bit more spread out than they were in Dublin where it seemed like you couldn't walk 100 feet without ending up under a draught beer tap -- it really is that great a city. Hangovers are mild so long as you're not drinking something you shouldn't be, like Budweiser, but nonetheless, going in armed with hangover tip is advisable. Donleavy's strangest book is undoubtedly "De Alfonce Tennis", a game which he invented and which, presumably, only he and his immediate family play. In it he provides some tips on how the super athlete can best combat a hangover (check out our tips on the same here) .

"Although rarely appreciated by the victim, the pain of a hangover can be curative of the spirit, bringing upon the body a temporary physical depression, which teaches you a lesson on many levels and especially not to drink too much again. Let twenty four hours elapse before serious De Alfonce Tennis play recommences."

Also in line with me at the Donleavy event was a gentleman who goes by the name of Ron Mexico (though I didn't meet him and only found his site via Google) and runs an excellent Hunter Thompson site. In Thompson's letter to Donleavy excerpted above, the good doctor closes by inviting Donleavy to stop by if he's ever in Big Sur. While getting his book signed, Herr Mexico asked Donleavy whether he ever took Thompson up on the offer. Click here and check out his post to find out the answer.

Up Dublin!

Noel

Coffee & Health: This week, it's good for you

This next topic is one with which we're intimately familiar, having written each and every post you've seen here under its influence: but we're not going to discuss absinthe or Haldol today. We'll save those twin joys for another morning. Instead, we're going to talk coffee.

In previous posts, we've examined mixing caffeinated beverages (so-called, 'energy drinks') with alcohol. It's coffee though, as anyone who's ever had to battle a crippling hangover to prep for that morning board meeting knows, that is the original energy drink.

[Editor's note: if you're determined to mix caffeinated beverages with alcohol, try a dollop of Sambuca in your morning espresso, Italian-style, rather than ruining perfectly good rum with some Coke---not that we'd endorse this for breakfast---we're speaking in general terms. However, having a Sambuca in your coffee for that aforementioned board meeting is highly recommended]

If you want to make your heart race, palms sweat and lose all faculties of speech, your best option is either falling in love, or, if a vacation to Amsterdam's red light district exceeds your allotted travel budget, downing a cup of $4 dollar Starbucks coffee.

Studies looking at the health benefits of coffee are equivocal, to say the least, but as with any study, if you're determined not to change your lifestyle/behavior in light of mounting, glacier-like evidence, it's best to simply ignore all the negative outcomes and instead focus on the positive: for example, decreasing one's risk for Parkinson's by smoking cigarettes (despite increasing your risk for just about every other possible affliction you can think of). Of course, not being named Michael J Fox or Muhammad Ali, not becoming a professional boxer, or not slamming your head repeatedly into drywall is also linked with decreasing one's risk of Parkinson's.

In a Spanish study involving nearly 85,000 participants, long-term health effects of the stuff that makes the prospect of 8:00AM classes and a dull cubicle job less gloomy, were examined.

The people who took part in the research completed questionnaires on how frequently they drank coffee, other diet habits, smoking and medical conditions, and hopefully didn't pose too many questions to researchers about any hypotheses, of the 'you mean you guys suspected that drinking carrot juice every week would kill me quickly and didn't TELL me about it?' variety.

Researchers then studied the mortality risk over the period of the study among people with different coffee-drinking habits, and not the 'cream and sugar' versus just 'just black thanks', variety, but the people (whoever they are) who don't indulge. Women who reported drinking two to three cups of caffeinated coffee per day had a 25 percent lower risk of death from heart disease than women who abstained.

It's possible that coffee drinking is linked to a go-getter attitude, of the type that doesn't involve sleeping until noon, and that people who get up much earlier in the day are more likely to exercise or that it's entirely difficult to be slothful when one is jittery, but that is just speculation.

Beer Acronyms: What PBR REALLY Stands for: "Pretty bad refreshment"

What kind of beer do you like to drink, neighbor?
Heineken.
Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!

Blue Velvet (1989)

Tastes and preferences are often established early in life, and an aversion to say, the music of Celine Dion or Jimmy Buffet likely forms somewhere during the third trimester.

There are those whose first exposure to beer, sadly, occurs around this period as well (and who are then predisposed to voting Republican) but for most of us, the first time a cold one hits the taste-buds, is by surreptitious sip of the old man's
Amstel Light during a half-time bathroom break to walk the dog.

For others, it's shaking down the basement sofa for enough loose change to procure a bottle of the cheapest and most easily accessible hooch. The first beer beverage purchased, usually by an older brother, or the guy who sported a 5 O'Clock shadow at age of 14 and whose fettuccine arms could be hidden with several sweaters and an overcoat, is some mass-market swill with an advertising budget that exceeds the GDP of the entire Caribbean.

In Canada, it's the ubiquitous Molson Canadian, synonymous with hockey (or 'ice hockey' as it's referred to in the States to differentiate it from, I don't know, tonsil hockey), the music of Bachman Turner Overdrive and that uncle who spends the better part of the afternoon in a hammock, awaking periodically to get you to fetch him one.

The equivalent state-side is Coors, and it's no coincidence that these are brewed by the same manufacturer, and that they likely come from the same giant kettle as well and just have a Molson label slapped on for export north of the border.

Mediocre brews such as Budweiser, Miller or Molson are usually abandoned once a level of disposable income is reached to be able to absorb the extra $3 forked over for something premium, or during those college years, in exchange for skipping a few meals.

Interestingly, defenders of the swill are trying to block the takeover of The King of Beers by Belgian monolith Inbev. According to reports, last night more than 27,000 had heeded the call, signing an online petition to stop the takeover of the brewer of Budweiser.

Pabst Blue Ribbon is inexplicably popular too, perhaps solely for the ease with which a can of it is stuffed into a freezer so it can be chilled within minutes on a hot day, or perhaps because of its 'slumming it' hipster cache.

Anyway, here are three beers from our youth, Miller Genuine Draft (MGD), Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR) and Bud, and what these really stand for. Thanks to our good buddies over at College Drinker for the idea...

MGD
Mediocre, god-awful drink
Maligned ginger-beer doppelganger
Mostly generic disappointment
Must be gluttonous dipsomaniac
Mild, gaseous, dismal

BUD
Beastly Undrinkable Drek
Basically Unfortunate Drink
Beer Under-agers Drink
Brew Unquestionably Dreadful
Base Ubiquitous Disgrace
Bubbly Urine-like Draft

PBR
Pretty bad refreshment
Possibly beer refuse
Potential brew rejected
Promoted by rabble
Prohibited by rarefied
Positively below rank
Patently banal rubbish

Literary Agents: Get Reputable Author Representation and Avoid Getting Scammed

Instead of the drunken shenanigans we usually chronicle, we thought we'd offer up a change of pace this morning. Since our book, The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death and Other True Tales of Drunken Debauchery came out, we've dealt with various people asking us about the process of landing an agent. Hence, we thought we'd offer a few insights and share them here.

Finding the right literary agent can be a challenge. Here are several online and print resources to make the hunt less daunting.

Googling 'New York' and 'literary agent', surprisingly, is a good first step because within the Big Apple’s city limits beats the heart of book publishing.

However, even though the majority ply their trade in the Five Boroughs there are good ones everywhere. More important than geography, is that a prospective agent is part of a professional body.

The Association of Authors' Representatives

The Association of Authors' Representatives (AAR) not only insists its members abide by a canon of professional ethics (for example, not charging fees as agents earn a living from a percentage of an author's advance and royalties), but has a strict admittance criterion based on how often agents are able to sell author works to publishers within a given period of time. An author would not be well served by an agent who last sold rights to a book years ago.

AAR and similar groups also have comprehensive listings of agent members, who often have websites where a writer can submit their queries online, great in this electronic age so that one doesn’t have to agonize over self-addressed stamped envelopes and being at the whim of the postal service.

These agent sites detail what material they’re specifically looking for. The business is fiercely competitive, with some agents getting hundreds (!) of queries a month. If a writer specializes in historical non-fiction, they should only query agents open to that, rather than thinking their stuff is so brilliant that it would even entice someone who deals in crime.

If an agent website is found through Google, make sure the agency is a member of AAR or its equivalent across the pond, the Association of Authors' Agents (UK). Unfortunately, there is no comparable Canadian agent oversight body that we know of, perhaps due to the industry’s relatively small size.

If an agent is NOT a member of one of the aforementioned associations, it's due to the following:

1. They charge fees, or are engaged in other unscrupulous and unethical behavior

2. They are too new to have accumulated sufficient rights sales to be considered for accreditation.

3. They are mavericks or ‘lone wolves’ who often declare that they don't need to be part of any association.

Of these, only Number 2 should be worthy of a prospective writer’s attention. It's not uncommon for an agent to work in a big, successful house, and feel the need to branch out and start up their own agency, and have yet to amass any rights sales. Check for credentials and background. At MINIMUM, they should at least adhere to the codes and conduct set out by the AAR and should ideally be in the process of seeking admittance to it. Check out recent rights sales. If none are listed, that should be a red flag.

The Guide to Literary Agents

In addition to online agent sources, the annually updated book The Guide to Literary Agents, is a useful source, however the contact info is occasionally out of date by the time it’s been printed.

Writer Beware

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) operates a site called ‘Writer Beware’, (previously the slyly named, ‘Preditors & Editors). This is a great resource which lists complaints that have been raised about agent conduct. There are no guarantees and on occasion, complaints will even be levied against those who hold AAR membership. As the title implies, there are lots of shady people out there, looking to get 'reading fees' or miscellaneous ‘upfront or administrative fees’ out of often desperate writers. Some lawyers even fancy themselves book agents, as they know how to read and decipher contracts, but do not engage in proper conduct befitting a literary agent.

Be careful, and best of luck.

Top 10 Actors Whose Crappy Movies are Guaranteed to be Shown on a Plane!

As a captive audience for PS I Love You, and not the kind of captive audience that could at least interrupt the proceedings by shanking the warden, it seems there are certain actors whose films are more likely to be shown on commercial flights than others.

Unlike a typical movie theater audience, for whom dozing off would be a common, though unintended outcome for many of these movies, in-flight screenings are to 300 plus worn out travelers, who'd rather be sleeping before the rolling of either the opening credits or the drinks cart.

Like trains before them, the first commercial flights were long ago associated with all the glamor and prestige of a champagne and orange juice breakfast rather than today when they're more commonly linked to microwavable butter chicken/unidentifiable protein plastic tray repasts.

These days, unless you're in first class, where cherries dipped in Belgian chocolate are dangled into eager mouths, you're more likely to encounter nose-hair singeing B.O. re-circulated throughout the cabin, howling infants who due to FAA restrictions unfortunately cannot be stowed in overhead compartments and limits on how many rum & Cokes can be downed before a stern reprimand and a dip into that duty free gin that sits in your carry on.

The in-flight movie is meant to be a two-hour diversion from such unpleasantness, not to mention the strain of patella bones jammed into eye sockets with the impromptu reclining of the seat in front, whose occupant then goes on to remove their socks, an apt sensory accompaniment to the on-screen 'entertainment'.

The problem is, these bottom-feeding MOR vehicles don't dare offend anyone, so what the weary traveler is left with, are some of the films listed here.

In PS I Love You, shown on a recent Amsterdam to Toronto flight and mercifully, not the reverse as well, or else the integrity of the cabin door would've been tested for a quick exit into space, either Jennifer Garner or Hilary Swank portray a woman haunted by posthumous letters left by her husband.
[Editor's note: it's very likely Swank and Garner are the same person, though confirmatory calls to her/their agent have gone unreturned]

These dispatches, carefully prepared by the hubbie while he knew he'd be dispatched to that great, big, airplane hangar in the sky, were designed ostensibly to help her 'get on with her life'. This, despite what is obvious to everyone else on screen, the cockpit crew, your seat-mate who is drooling like a bull mastiff and anyone who's stowed luggage under their seats--- that it is in fact doing the exact opposite, and is undeniably creepy.

Here is a list of the top actors in Hollywood who are most likely to make you wish you'd remembered to pack a sleep mask, or decided against that Tampa time-share.

Perennial 30-something slacker, Matthew McConaughey has a film resume peppered with in-flight staples (Fool's Gold, Failure to Launch, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Sahara), films so lengthy and wretched, you'd wish Air France would re-commission the Concorde to make that transatlantic trip in 3 hours, long enough to ensure that once meals are served, complimentary peanuts doled out, and supersonic gas fumes inhaled, there wouldn't be time left to take in any of his rotten oeuvre.




Sandra Bullock. On a trip to Milan, Italy several years back, I was initiated into a select fraternity: not the Freemasons, which would've meant bypassing the lineups in the country's finest museums and voting in their election, but along with several hundred or so of my fellow passengers, we were forced to sit through Miss Congeniality, not once, but twice. In this ostensible comedy, which guffaw for guffaw, easily matched that of the Asian tsunami disaster, Bullock plays an FBI agent who, to thwart a bombing, must go undercover in a beauty pageant despite being old enough to have given birth to all the contestants. Her latest work, 'All About Steve' is currently in post-production, and judging by the title alone, you'll be treated to it on that trip to Heathrow or Charles de Gaulle sometime next year.

Kirsten Dunst. Though still quite young, the fanged blonde has a lengthy career in commercial aviation-related entertainment ahead of her, having shown great potential in Bring it On, Drop Dead Gorgeous, and of course, Spider Man I and II.

Owen Wilson earned his wings in several charter-ready flicks, including the extraordinarily unwatchable Drillbit Taylor, The Darjeeling Limited, You, Me and Dupree, Starsky & Hutch, Night at the Museum.



Ryan Reynolds has a crappy in-flight movie resume longer than the runway for the new Airbus A380, with Definitely Maybe, The In-Laws, Chaos Theory and Just Friends. Apropos of nothing, he was once engaged to the ironically talented Alanis (Why the long face?) Morissette.


Kate Hudson. Since giving a decent accounting of herself in the Cameron Crowe period piece Almost Famous, the offspring of Goldie Hawn and somebody almost famous named Hudson, has rung up a string of flicks that have been shown while cruising at 30,000 feet. These include How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Alex & Emma, Le Divorce, Raising Helen, You, Me and Dupree and Fool's Gold. Her place in this list will be solidified well into 2010 with the filming of Bride Wars and My Best Friend's Girl (currently in post production), flicks that passengers will comfortably doze through shortly, barring any kind of heavy turbulence or hijacking threats.


Dermot Mulroney. With Griffin & Phoenix, The Family Stone, Must Love Dogs and the Wedding Date under his belt, Mulroney is a shoe-in for the world of fixed wing propulsive thrust cinema.






Robin Williams. Unlike leg-warmers and hairspray, the hirsute Williams' coke-fueled 'humor' has not seen a resurgence in popularity from the 80s. The guy responsible for not only writing the book on family-friendly, barely serviceable comedy, but penning the foreword and editing it as well, RW has added to the dreariness of modern flight with RV, Man of the Year, Night at the Museum, License to Wed, Patch Adams, Goodwill Hunting, Mrs Doubtfire, Toys, Hook, Awakenings, and Dead Poets Society.



Julia Roberts Roberts is the queen of feel-good fare that should have an FAA restriction on it, Notting Hill, My Best Friend's Wedding, Runaway Bride, America's Sweethearts, Full Frontal (in which she isn't) Closer, and Mona Lisa Smile, though it's more of a smirk.

Hugh Grant. The undisputed king, the Sovereign of the Skies and the only member of this list, whose each and every film could upset stomachs between in-flight meals.

Stop the presses! Lily Allen gets too drunk at some awards gala

For those of you mercifully unfamiliar with the business of journalism (those whose chosen career path is one in which the salary exceeds that of your average busboy and does not involve having to indulge in the odd repast usually enjoyed by the family cat), there are five 'W's related to the profession.

These are the infamous who, what, where, when and why questions they focus on ('who cares?' being the equivalent to the 'and sometimes Y' for vowels. The 'why even bother getting into the profession anyway?' is something we'll get into at another time). The concept of the five Ws, along with renting a film adaptation of a George Orwell novel, forms the fundamental basis of journalism.

Now that we've saved you thousands of dollars that might've been spent on journalism school tuition rather than say, a nice vacation to the Amalfi Coast, and possibly an orange visor and a comfortable pair of walking shoes, we can concentrate on the 'who', which is exactly the question we posed to one another when a certain Lily Allen crept into the news.

Lily Allen, despite sounding like a pharmaceutical subsidiary that spits out erectile dysfunction tablets, is apparently a pop-singer (who). Ms Allen got drunk recently at an awards show in England (what, when and where). With four of the five Ws covered, the 'why' that's left is self-explanatory, as having to sit through anything dubbed 'The Glamour Awards' beyond catching the odd glimpse of a boob, seems to be a recipe for catching up on those summer novels and at the very least, sneaking a quart of rum into an oversized handbag.

Apparently, at said gala, a bouncer had to carry away the pop star whose ability to carry a tune didn't translate into being able to hold her liquor.

Speaking of her songs, between the two of us, even after snapping our fingers and getting the hotel lobby pianist to tickle a jaunty 'C' on the ivories, we couldn't come up with the names of any of them. We had an even vaguer notion of what she looked like---as it turns out, the girl at the mall who scoops your butter pecan.

So, in a nod to the business of 'celebrity journalism' (that subset of the profession that deals with 'who cares?' types of questions), we, um, salute the pop-star and turn to matters of greater import later this week--the business of Trappist Belgian beer---once the jet-lag subsides.

[Sleep-deprived Editor's note: Lily Allen, is apparently dating Dustin Hoffman's son and according to reports, they met at a VIP (actually, the source newspaper's description as both the 'V' and the 'I' seem to be lacking here) bash. "He thought she was a lovely, cute girl, but didn't have a clue who she was."]