IANAD*, but I’m pretty sure this is accurate, from a tour I took of the Woodford Reserver distillery. Jack Daniels, I believe, is aged in barrels that once contained bourbon, but because they’ve been used before, it isn’t called bourbon.
There’s a picture of me in an old encyclopedia illustrating the article on child prodigies (granted it’s not accurate: although I used to play the violin at street festivals, and until I was fourteen I looked like I was about 5 years old, and although I photographed well in that case, I wasn’t anything near child-prodigy in my playing).
I was once in a trainwreck (granted it wasn’t a real train, just one of those tourist trains that run on metal threads over the tracks, but the conductor had started arguing with someone about something–probably about how much to tip tour guides or something equally stupid–and a sharp turn nearly pulled the train off of that thread. Nobody was hurt, thankfully)
I once received blood money (granted it wasn’t from the Mafia or anything, but rather it was from an ATM, when a 5-dollar bill came out of the machine with a big blot of fresh blood on it).
Elendil’s Heir, do you think some of our guests this evening might be sufering from mental illnesses? I’m particularly interested in your opinion of LHoD.
I wouldn’t even venture a guess about anyone’s mental illness in a social situation like this. The world’s full of crazy people, but I can’t say I’ve met anyone in this thread who gives me that impression. Yet.
When I was 16, I lied about my age and joined the Army.
I once stuffed over 50 grapes in my mouth at one time.
A while back, I invented this cool gunslinger-type character to use in some adventure stories and stuff; recently, I read the first volume of Garth Ennis’ Preacher series and discovered that the character I created is so similar to the Saint of Killers that I could never hope to use him in any kind of professional story because it would constitute plaigarism. :mad:
Well, I thought I’d lever my way back into this revel and tell two truths and a lie. Here goes:
I kicked around England, Belgium and France with my favorite zine author Aaron Cometbus for three weeks, several years ago.
I wrote a tribute to (science fiction author) Spider Robinson on my MySpace blog; I sent him a copy, and he was gracious enough to write me back & thank me for the compliment.
I used to have a new wave band called What Next, and we played at the infamous Mabuhay Gardens in SF.
Back in Brooklyn, Guido and I taught at the same school. I was World History, Guido did English. He had the best thick Brooklyn accent, and he was a meaty drill sergeant of a guy, always barking out orders: “Go Dere, Anna! Get over here, Joe!” Students loved and feared him.
Alas, although he was merciless in teaching students (no grammatical eror escaped his eye), he failed to live up to his own standards. When he submitted his annual Individual Growth Plan, it was riddled with grammatical and spelling mistakes. The principal was a real hardhearted bastard, and he decided that he couldn’t have such a guy teaching English.
Of course, this was New York, and the teaching union rules the schools. The principal couldn’t fire Guido. Instead, he busted him all the way down to cafeteria worker.
Guido couldn’t take it. He cracked. I still remember him standing behind the counter, tears in his eyes, serving food and ordering the food around just like he used to order the students around: “Get over here, hamburger! Go dere, slaw!” I knew that the inescapable fact of his own failings lay heavy on his mind.