Jimmy Bedford, Master of My Whiskey

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Note from Tyge: I was dismayed to recently open a letter from my mother only to find a newspaper clipping of Jimmy Bedford's obituary. For over twenty years, Jimmy Bedford was Jack Daniel's Master Distiller. He was virtually Jack Daniel himself, incarnate. He was a kind man, down-to-earth and full of that hospitality the south is famous for. Mr. Bedford died of a heart attack on August 7th while working on his farm in Lynchburg, Tennessee.

I was fortunate enough to get to know Mr. Bedford on a few occasions. Here's a brief account (with pictures!) of one of the best vacations I ever took and how I came to know the man behind the bottle. Enjoy.

In the spring of 2001 I bought a motorcycle. I purchased it from a woman who got it in a divorce settlement. She was selling it super-cheap and I gladly took it off her hands.

Although a great deal, the bike was boring to look at. I decided to customize it with a Jack Daniel's theme because, well, I love Jack Daniels. I replaced the fenders, threw on some whitewall tires, added some lights and made the side-saddles out of wooden barrels. I shaped the sissy-bar into a Jack Daniel's bottle, complete with the JD label. A friend of mine customizes cars and he sprayed the bike with a faux-wood grain and added some Jack Daniels' emblems. It turned out quite handsome and it also turned a lot of heads wherever I rode it.

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And ride it I did, all the way to Sturgis, South Dakota for Bike Week in 2001. It was there I met Jimmy Bedford for the first time. I told him about touring the Distillery with my parents when I was ten years old. Jimmy smiled and said "Well, it must have made an impression, being that you customized your motorcycle so nicely."

Jimmy autographed one of my barrels with a sharpie and posed for photos with the rest of the JD crew:

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You look at your photographer, I'll look at mine.

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A few months after Sturgis I received an email from a Jack Daniel's representative in South Dakota. He told me of a contest on the JD website and said I should enter my motorcycle through the use of photographs and commentary. The theme of the contest was "How Does Jack Live in YourLife?" I entered the contest and was one of the ten chosen winners. The nice people at JD flew the winners (plus one guest each) to Nashville (they even flew me in a few days early so I could spend time with my family) where we stayed at the Opryland Hotel and drank a lot of Jack Daniel's at the hotel's Jack Daniel's Bar. The next day we took a bus to Lynchburg and toured the Distillery. Here's a picture of all of us. Mr. Bedford and myself are the bookends.

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After Lynchburg we went to Atlanta and toured the CNN studios and the Coca-Cola museum. I took a photo of Jimmy standing in front of some whales. We then flew to London, England and spent three days there. We saw Big Ben, Parliament, Westminster Abbey, among other things. We also drank a lot of Jack Daniel's.

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Jimmy and the famous flying whales of Atlanta.

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Leaving London, we flew to Prague, Czech Republic to celebrate Jack Daniel's 152nd birthday. The Czechs know how to throw a party! The occasion was held in an old three-story building with a bar on each floor. We saw a great band named Divorkej Billperform but because they sang in Czech, we couldn't understand a word they said. As you can tell by the photo, JD was the only beverage served at the party... and we drank a lot of it.

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I'll have a bottle please.

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"Screw the band, I want a picture with the cake!"

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"Pssst, I filled one shot glass with my urine!"

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I wish I knew how to speak Czech.

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The day after the Czech Republic party, Brown Foreman's (JD's parent-company) stock rose 12% and my triglyceride level rose 300%. Did I mention we drank a lot of Jack Daniel's?

In the years following the trip, Jimmy Bedford would come to Las Vegas every fall for the PBR Rodeo. A few times I went to the JD promotions tent and said hello to him. Although he didn't always remember my name, he would remember my motorcycle. He'd tell his cohorts about how we met and our trip to Europe.

Things have changed. I sold my motorcycle last summer on ebay. Considering the price I got for it and the good times and places it took me, I came out so much more than even. I also don't drink Jack Daniel's like I use to. Basically, I save the tasty libation for special occasions.

I've always wanted to write a post about my Jack Daniel's themed motorcycle and my subsequent trip to Europe. I never thought it would be Jimmy Bedford's obituary that would make me actually do it.

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I think this qualifies as a special occasion. I'm heading to the liquor store right now and buying one of those little bottles of Jack Daniel's. I'll pour it in the shot-glass that I bought in Praha and raise it to Jimmy and drink it while listening to my Divorkej Bill CD.

As Jimmy told me on that night in Prague, you don't always have to know the language to understand the music.

Well said Jimmy.

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FiN.

Play Misty For Me

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Other than some Rocky movies and The Right Stuff, I'm fairly certain the only movies I saw in the theater with my Dad were Clint Eastwood flicks. Dad loved Clint Eastwood.

I remember as a kid sitting in the den with Dad and watching Bronco Billy, The Gauntlet, Dirty Harry and numerous Eastwood westerns. When I was old enough, we'd go to the theater whenever a Clint Eastwood movie debuted. We saw Tightrope, Sudden Impact, The Dead Pool, and Heartbreak Ridge together in the theater. I can still remember certain scenes when Dad laughed. The last movie we saw in the theater was Unforgiven. It was by-far Dad's favorite Eastwood movie because it made fun of Clint getting old and really, Dad was getting old with him.

I remember watching the end of In the Line of Fire (on VHS) when Eastwood and Rene Russo were sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Dad blurted, "You see that? You can't do that... sit on those steps. The security guards will make you get up."

"But Dad, they're (Eastwood & Russo) Secret Service agents."

"I'm telling you, they wouldn't let the Pope sit on those steps if he wanted to."

"But Dad, it's a movie."

"Yea... and wow, he (Eastwood) really gave it to that bastard (Malkovich) at the end, didn't he?"

"He sure did!"

And we'd laugh.

Dad died two years ago today. Last night as I got ready for bed I flipped through the TV channels and at the stroke of midnight, Unforgiven started showing on the History Channel. Why it was on the History Channel, I'm not sure, but I stayed up and watched the whole movie. I found myself laughing at the same parts Dad laughed at years ago. I guess I'm getting old, too.

I have yet to see Eastwood in Gran Torino but from what I've heard I'm sure Dad would have really associated with Clint's character in the movie. I'll get around to watching Gran Torino one of these days but right now, for me, watching an Eastwood movie isn't as much fun as it use to be.

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FiN.

The Irony of David Halberstam's Death

Meet Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist David Halberstam. I read all 750 pages of his 1986 book, The Reckoning, and to this day it's still the longest tome I've ever indulged. A high school teacher suggested I read it, and I'm glad I did.

The Reckoning is a book about how the Japanese got a foot-hold on the automotive industry during the 1970's. You see, America was producing gas-guzzling vans, station wagons, and luxury sedans in the middle of an oil crisis. Along came a couple of little Japanese companies called Datsun and Nissan (Our Compact, Fuel-Effecient Cars Will Be The Death Of You™) and well, things snow-balled from there. Halberstam not only wrote about the history of the industry, but also penned dire predictions for the future of America's auto industry, and how it would succumb to the Japanese.

With the recent bankruptcy of GM (Filing For Chapter 11 Isn't As Bad As Chapter 13™) and American car manufacturers being in trouble all-around, The Reckoning has recently been cited by critics as a book that should have been titled The Warning, because nearly everything Halberstam predicted came true.

David Halberstam died in a multiple car collision in Menlo Park on April 23rd, 2007. I was sorry to hear of his death but... curiosity got the best of me, and I just had to find something out. I was actually surprised when I found what I was looking for online:

The three cars involved in the crash that took Halberstam's life?

A late model Infiniti, a Toyota Camry, and a Nissan Coupe. All Japanese cars.

I'm sure Mr. Halberstam is sitting on a cloud somewhere and shaking his finger at America while saying of his death, "Well, at least you can say I kinda saw it coming."

Irony is a funny thing and more often than not makes me smile. Granted, it's an acquired emotion but really folks, a wry smile is better than no smile at all. If you try to find the irony in things, you just might find yourself smiling more often.

Rest in peace Mr. David Halberstam.

FiN.

More irony. Hear what Katie Couric has to say about David Halberstam's death.

Watch CBS Videos Online

Ticket Stubbage

Go ahead, click on the picture of tickets. Really, do it because you'll be able to read them. These aren't all of my tickets because a lot of them have faded and are difficult to read. 

Please note there's two Gordon Lightfoot tickets. I guess I kept my friend's ticket because I've only seen Gordon once. Trust me on that, as I swear on the watery graves of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Near the center you'll see my 1983 Men At Work ticket. That was the first concert I ever saw and it was the band's North American debut. Years later I got Colin Hay to autograph the ticket but the pen ran out of ink so you can't really make out his signature. Next to it is a stub from a Ramones concert. I was in the pit and moshed. I think the whole band is dead now.

You'll also see a "Trilogy of Terror" ticket featuring Nashville bands Dessau and Jet Black Factory. Jet Black Factory didn't actually get to play that show however. The bass player and myself took a little drive thirty minutes before the gig and I plowed into a truck that decided to turn in front of me. The bass player's head shattered my windshield and he had to go to the hospital. I was wearing my seat belt. Boy, how the guys in the band were pissed at me that night!

There's a 1995 ticket from seeing Eddie Rabbitt (yes, two t's) with the Oak Ridge Boys. My friend's dad was Eddie's road manager and played fiddle in the band. I got to meet Eddie and he gave me one of his Ovation guitar picks. Eddie's dead now too.

So is Michael Hutchence. By the date on my INXS ticket I can tell you I saw Michael perform only a few months before he auto-erotically self-asphyxiated.

There's a Steve Earle, Keb Mo, Jackson Browne ticket in there but I only went to see Steve Earle and luckily, he was the show's opener. I ran into him afterwards in the casino and had a nice conversation with him considering he's turned into an asshole. Here's a quick story about Steve:

My friend Mark use to be a bartender at the Gold Rush in Nashville. He would shoot-up heroin with Steve Earle back in the day. One night Mark was at a concert at The Cannery and he ran into Steve.

"Good to see you Steve," Mark said, "I notice you're wearing the same clothes you had on last night."

"I was in fucking New York City last night Mark, how the hell do you know what I was wearing?"

"Dude," Mark said, "You performed on 'Late Night With David Letterman.'"

True story.

The best (large venue) shows I've seen were The Chemical Brothers, Midnight Oil, and Rusted Root.

The loudest shows were Oasis, Live and Smashing Pumpkins.

The most fun show was seeing Mojo Nixon with Skid Roper & The Toad Lickers. 

The shows I attended with a twisted arm but turned out surprisingly great were AC/DC, Duran Duran, and Morrissey. If you look at my Morrissey ticket (bottom center) you'll see Ticketmaster misspelled his name.

The show I'm most ashamed of is Super Diamond. They're a not-so-great Neil Diamond tribute band. Neil Diamond's ticket stub is somewhere in there too.

I'm glad I've saved my ticket stubs. Without them I wouldn't be able to tell you I've seen U2 three times (I've killed a lot of brain cells with copious amounts of alcohol).

When I flip through my stack of tickets, I get all nostalgic and whatnot. It's like looking at a photo album but with the images in your head. The best part, the part that makes me smile, is knowing my collection of ticket stubs will always be growing and will never be complete.

FiN.

The Cavanaughs - Part V - Easter

Note: This is the fifth post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.

Pa was always a quiet man but he became even more so during the holiday of Easter. It wasn't until the spring of 1906, when I was eighteen, that I learned why.

Pa had told me my Grandpa had been a miner in Pennsylvania and had died from the black lung. That was nearly all I knew about Grandpa, except that he was also a Molly Maguire. Pa kept no photograph of him and rarely talked about what kind of man he was. Really though, Grandpa died long before I was born and if I ever did think about anyone in the hereafter, Ma was the only one in my thoughts.

It was this particular Easter that Pa, Gracie and myself took a trip to the city of Muskegon. A friend of Pa's lived there and Muskegon was known to have the best Easter parade west of Saginaw. We caught the 2:15 from Ludington and headed south. It was the first time Gracie and I had been on a train and we stared out the window, occasionally catching a glimpse of Lake Michigan, it's grey water full of chop.

An hour later Gracie slept to the rhythm of the rail as Pa pulled out his pipe and fired up. Pa always mused deep things when smoking his pipe and this time was no exception. I prepared myself by getting comfortable in my seat.

"Boy, being that you never care to ask about your grandfather, I'm going to tell you something about him."

"It's not that I ain't curious Pa, it just seems you prefer not to talk about him," I said.

"True," answered Pa, "but you should know what I'm about to tell you, and you should have known it long before now. I was going to tell you years ago, but with your Ma dying and all, I figured it best to wait."

I raised my eyebrows in curiosity.

"It was on Good Friday in 1865. Your grandpa was mining anthracite coal outside of Somerset, Pennsylvania. At the age of forty-two, he was considered an old-man at the trade but he was planning to retire soon—before the black lung caught up with him. Myself, being all of twelve years old, was looking forward to seeing more of him—and without all that black dust covering every inch of his body. Your grandfather was a hard worker, he was indeed that."

I nodded.

"An immigrant who faked his understanding of the English language—so he could work—misunderstood orders and mined the wrong vein. The mine flooded-out with water and caught Grandpa and six others in the chute. The men were trapped and no one could get to them, although it wasn't due to lack of effort. The whole damn town, including your grandma and myself, waited at the mouth of the mine for three days. Three days they tried to dig them out. On Easter Sunday they finally broke through and found your grandpa and the six others, but it was far too late. From the writing on the wall of the cave, we knew they had lived until late Saturday night. The messages they wrote, as you can imagine, were of desperation and repentance."

"Pa, I'm sorry. I had no idea," I said.

"Tis' okay my boy. Your Grandma decided she would be damned if she raised her only son to become a miner and suffer a similar fate, so we moved here to Michigan and started over. It was the best decision she ever made."

"So we both lost a parent at a young age," I said.

Pa nodded as he turned and gazed out the window. Our conversation was over as quickly as it had started. Shortly thereafter, I also succumbed to the rhythm of the train and woke much later to a whistle that announced our arrival into Muskegon Depot.

Saturday was very exciting, especially for Gracie. I sat with her on a curb at Main Street and watched as the parade passed us by. We both managed to catch some genuine salt-water taffy thrown from the Mayor's wagon. We laughed as the clowns brought up the rear of the parade, carrying shovels, their task being to collect the horses' manure.

On Sunday we all dressed in our best clothes and went to church. I really didn't want to go and was sure Pa didn't either. I hadn't been to a church since Ma died but Pa's friend, being the god-fearing man he was, insisted we go. Being guests in his home, it was the only natural and obliging thing to do. Of course the sermon was about Easter and the resurrection of Christ. I had heard the story when I was younger but had failed to grasp it as I do now, my mind being more mature.

As we turned a page in the good book, I looked over at Pa. He was in a far away place, his eyes distant and his mind turning. I can only speculate what he was thinking but it was probably about his Pa and the other six miners and how through the eyes of an onlooking twelve year old, their salvation out of that mine on Easter Sunday should have been as simple as rolling away a stone and seeing them emerge into the light.

FiN.

The Cavanaughs - Part IV - St. Patrick's Day

Note: This is the fourth post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.

I turned sixteen years old on March 6th, 1904. Geraldine and I were still going steady and happy as larks. For my birthday she gave me a genuine Swiss Army knife—with my name engraved on it. Pa handed me down one of his Winchester rifles as a gift—the stock also with my name engraved on it. I then had two rifles (and a genuine Swiss Army knife) and was becoming a fairly good shot.

Shortly after my birthday Pa and I double-backed on our horse into town. It was Saint Patrick's Day and time for two men to share a beer together. My sister, little Gracie—who wasn't so little anymore—stayed home. She had grown use to taking over our dead Ma's housework, even at the tender age of ten.

Pa and I walked into The Wagon Wheel. It was an old tavern, dark and loud, filled with smoke. Pa ordered two pints of stout, Guinness it was, and we took a seat at a small table in the corner.

Pa raised his glass and proposed a toast:

"May we live the life we love and love the life we live. If we can't do that, may God forgive us—while we sit with the devil, drinking Guinness."

The beer was warm but smooth. The foam stuck to my upper lip and tickled. Pa leaned back in the chair and pulled out his pipe and pouch. He started to fill his Briar.

"Boy, you know we Cavanaughs are Irish. Your Grandpa—my Pa—came over to the States in 1830 from County Wexford. He settled in Philadelphia, the city where I was born."

"I know we're Irish Pa, but I didn't know all that," I said.

"It's true. Your Grandpa was a miner but above that, a Molly Maguire." Pa lit his pipe and nursed the embers with his breath.

"What's a Molly Maguire?" I asked.

"It was an Irish group that fought for miner's rights. Working conditions in the mines were poor. The Mollies sometimes had to do extreme things in order to make things better. Never let anyone tell you The Mollies were a bunch of ninnies—bastards perhaps, but decent bastards at that."

"Yes Pa."

"We Irish also have a strong temper. You've probably sensed it in yourself already. It's important to have a leash on it, understand?"

"Yes Pa."

Pa got up and went to the bar and ordered another beer for himself. Mine was still half-full. Pa returned and pulled his chair closer. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

"Boy, remember three weeks ago when I rode our horse to town but had to walk home because she'd gotten sick?"

"Yes Pa, you said she'd come down with Colic and was at Mr. Newman's ranch heal'n."

"Only half true," Pa confessed. "Do you see that loud English bloke at the bar? The one in the duster wearing the black Stetson? He's an old friend, well, use to be. For a prank that which he thought was funny, he fed our horse salt-water while I was in here drinking with Mr. Newman."

"Salt water?"

"Yes boy. Mostly harmless in the long-run but it'll make your steed sick as a loon for a day or so."

"That wasn't very nice of him," I said.

"No, it wasn't. I had every intention, or rather my Irish temper did, to knock him silly. The walk home cured me of that. In fact, I chose to walk home instead of borrowing one of Newman's horses. I had to think things over before my temper got the best of me. I'm actually glad things didn't turn to fisticuffs."

"I'll beat him into his sleep!" I found myself saying. I suppose it was the liquid-courage catching up with me.

"No need boy. His palomino is outside and you're going to ride her home."

"What?" I asked with huge doubt, "He'll go to the sheriff and says it's stolen. Last I heard horse-thieving is still big trouble."

"The sheriff already knows what's in the kettle. He thinks it's a fair enough retribute for what that shyster did to our horse. In fact, the sheriff told most everyone in town not to give the bastard a ride out to our place when he's told where his horse is at. He's going to walk there—just like I had to."

A grin arched across my face. I was feeling tingly and happy—even sly. Pa brought me another beer and I drank it down much faster than the first. I was excited.

Less than an hour later, Pa and I were riding two horses, me on a palomino, up and over the prairies as the sun fell behind the hills. We were both drunk and our voices echoed across the glen as we sang the Irish song Patriot Game together.

My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,
So now I am part of the patriot game!

When the song ended, we laughed and started singing it all over again—all the way home.

That night I fell asleep with a grin on my face and an Irish anthem filling my ears. A beautiful palomino grazed outside my window.

And Pa was the best father—and Irishman—on earth.

FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - Well Hello Mr. President

hotel employee Ruben Padron with President Clinton

Last year former President Bill Clinton and daughter Chelsea came to Las Vegas and visited our employee dining room at the hotel. Their mission was to drum-up union support for Hillary. Of course the day they made their visit was also my day off work and I missed all the hoopla.

All that changed today when the former President made another visit. I'm not sure what the occasion was, perhaps a keynote speech for a convention or maybe he wanted to play a round of golf with his friends The Greenspuns, but you could feel the excitement in the air... that is if you knew he was coming.

Myself and another bellman, Jack, got the call to be Clinton's bellmen. We waited, along with security and top casino executives, at the lesser crowded side-entrance of the hotel. After thirty minutes someone's cell phone rang with the news that the entourage was delayed an hour. I went to the cafeteria and ate a turkey sandwich.

An hour later Jack and I again posted up at the side door, this time with two Secret Service agents. It was chilly and windy outside and the execs waited in the foyer of the hotel. Within minutes, five SUVs pulled up, the third carrying Clinton and his luggage. There was a flurry of action in a very short amount of time. Another eight Secret Service agents emerged from the SUVs. One of the agents, the one standing between Ruben and Clinton in the above photo, was in charge of the luggage. Jack and I helped him empty the baggage from the rear of the car. As I pulled some bags off the top of the pile, I found myself staring at the back of Bill Clinton's head -he was still sitting in the back seat. I almost said, "And a good day to you SIR!" (quoting John Goodman's character in The Big Lebowski, when he meets the guy in the iron-lung) but I refrained.

Jack, myself and Mr. Secret Agent Man rolled our carts through the foyer as the former President stopped to meet the hotel executives. We arrived at the suite and were greeted by another agent. I know this because they wear a lapel pin with a special symbol on it -usually a star -but they apparently change the specially-coded pin every hour.

The agent gave Jack and I a worthy tip and as we turned to leave, there was the 42nd President walking down the hall towards us, surrounded by his people. Jack and I pushed our carts aside and stood against the wall.

Clinton stopped in front of Jack and shook his hand as he said hello. He then walked past the luggage cart and stopped in front of me. He said hello and shook my hand.

I replied with "Happy Presidents' Day, Mr. President."

He simply said "Thanks."

Meeting a former President on Presidents' Day. I don't think it can get any cooler than that.

FiN.