The Lesson of Popcorn Sutton

For most of us, Prohibition is little more than a history lesson*, but for American drinkers unfortunate enough to live in any of this country's dry counties--which, not surprisingly, are most densely located in the shittiest, most backwoods southern states; More than half of Mississippi's counties are dry, for example--this should-be relic of a concept remains a daily impediment in the quest for strong drink.

Whatever their reasons for it, and no matter the local laws regarding it, a certain percentage of people anywhere, at any given time, want to be drinking**. And why not? Booze is perfect for life's never-ending cycle of highs, lows, and the boring shit between highs and lows. This being the case (as observed by many, many generations of humans), it only makes sense that for the majority of us alcohol is readily accessible.

But, if the drinking mood strikes and you find yourself buried deep inside dry territory (probably because it's where your parents met, married, fucked, and you were born; all the more reason to drink I say), are you just going to say to yourself, "Well, in 1917 this county banned the manufacture, sale, and consumption of any beer, wine, distilled spirits or alcohol of any kind, a decision upheld by this county's voters in 1947 and 1992, so despite the fact that I want to get shitfaced drunk, which anyone my age can rightfully do in the vast majority of this country that I live in, I think I should probably just not?"

An exaggerated statement, yes, but the answer is no and the reason is simple. Those voters and what they thought a hundred years ago, or fifty, or ten or even if the vote had occurred the day before don't mean a thing to the individual looking for a nip to get him through the day (or really any other type of drinker), nor should they.

This is where--just like in the Prohibition era--the moonshiners come in. I applaud these brave souls in their effort to make a buck by taking advantage of an artificially created market, simultaneously providing people with a desirable product and saying fuck you to local authorities, the ATF and DEA. One of history's great moonshiners, Martin "Popcorn" Sutton, didn't run liquor during prohibition but rather was born in 1946 (13 years after the 21st Amendment repealed the 18th) and began his bootlegging career in the late 60s and early 70s.

Raised in Cocke County, Tennessee, Popcorn Sutton learned the family trade of moonshining from his father. Being of Scots-Irish descent, and having had in their family a long history of producing liquor, both Sutton and his father considered the craft a legitimate piece of their heritage and, as such, he was particularly unapologetic even in the face of his many run-ins with police and federal agents.

Popcorn even went so far as to have appeared in several documentaries about moonshining, as well as having written an unabashed autobiography, Me and My Likker. Sadly though, I have no choice but to believe that it was this high profile that in 2009 incited a reactionary judge to think that he could really "send a message" by sentencing Mr. Sutton to 18 months in federal prison on charges of brewing spirits and possessing a firearm (which was only illegal because of Popcorn's status as a felon for crimes related to moonshining). The sentence came despite the fact that these types of cases are rarely anymore tried at the federal level, and was especially harsh considering the 62-year-old Sutton's being diagnosed with cancer leading up to the trial.

Rather than serve his sentence or die in prison, Marvin Sutton, in the final act of a lifetime of defiance, committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning in March 2009. I don't know about you, but I like that the guy went out on his own terms. It's kind of like a final "fuck you" to the agents and judges who might have seen some satisfaction from his physical imprisonment.

In closing I'd like to, on Popcorn's behalf, renew that fuck you to those same judges and agents, and for my part extend that very same fuck you to anyone who would, for whatever personal reason they might have, attempt to deny others the ability to use substances to alter their body's chemistry while hurting no one else.

Jeff Neuman

*Inferred lesson: broad-based, zero-tolerance substance control policies forced on a people at large by vocal, politically-backed minorities (in this case, asshole teetotalers who thought they knew what other people should be putting in their body) do not work, instead having the negative effect of driving the behavior underground and creating black markets, thereby assuring eternal conflict.

**The same can be said of smoking weed or shooting heroin, of course, and though I thoroughly believe in any adult individual's right to be able to do that so long as they are not endangering anyone else, for the sake of space and time I'm sticking to the alcohol argument here.

THE MOTHERFUCKING SUPER BOWL!

It's almost fucking here! I can't believe the anticipation. It has been utterly tearing me up inside. And as we count down the hours--we're inside 60 as I write--I want to take a moment to sufficiently reflect on the enormity of the game that is about to happen.

As I've said before, football is an emotion. In Packers fans--particularly right now--its the emotion, truly one of the driving forces of our being. And now, we are extremely fortunate to be able to watch our Pack take on Big Ben and the Steelers to decide Super Bowl XLV.

Sunday it will have been 4,760 days since the last time we were able to experience the emotion of football at this high a level. That was in the lead up to Super Bowl XXXII, which we lost to Elway's Broncos. It will have been 5,124 days on Sunday since we Packer fans have experienced the ultimate triumph, and thus the ultimate high in the emotion of football. And if we lose, that counter keeps right on ticking at 5,125 on Monday. May sound like just a number in those terms, but consider this: Every day that passes and adds to that streak represents another day that at least a few lifelong Packers fans die, never seeing another championship for their team.

My grandmother, 82, could soon be one of them. She's defied the odds to get to this point, and I can't help the feeling that holding on to try and see her team (she is a lifelong, and notoriously rabid Packer Backer even in failing health) win the Super Bowl one last time could be as big a factor as any in her being here today.

I'll never forget the sadness in her voice after we lost in the first round last year to the Cardinals--it was almost as if she was saying, "I don't know how many more of these I got in me." It was crushing. And now, we're here. At the verge. Flirting with that return to eternal greatness. It could not mean any more to me, my grandmother, my family, friends, or Packer Nation at large. It is everyfuckingthing: the reason they put on the pads day one.

It is taking everything I have to restrain the football currently trapped in my body from blasting through my fingers and typing for pages SUPER FUCKING BOWL! THE FUCKING SUPER BOWL! SUPER BOWL BITCHES! FUCKING SUPER BOWL! SUPERFUCKINGBOWL! Etc. The football is thick in the air here in Western Wisconsin and indeed in the entire state and nation at large as we anticipate the biggest game of the year. An unrestrained glee links all cheeseheads, no matter how different or far apart. It represents a pinnacle of solidarity.

When it's all said and done, I may just throw up blood from the ulcer it's all caused, but it will be fucking worth it.

GO PACK!

*image from brentfavre.com

It's just so fucking... FOOTBALL!

When Hunter Thompson came to peace with his impending suicide in February 2005, he sat at his desk in Woody Creek, CO and on his iconic typewriter began to pen what would become his final written words. As a man who wrote not only for a living, but also as his primary means of personal correspondence, he no doubt chose each word with care.

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.

At the top of this brief, grim-but-oh-so-Hunter manuscript he handwrote a title--"Football Season is Over."

_________________________________________________

Football season is over. These are tough words for any fan to swallow. In fact, if your team is one of the 31 that didn't win the Super Bowl, you are guaranteed a disappointing end to the season. This disappointment is invariably followed by months of agonized waiting. Waiting to see how your team makes out in the draft. Waiting to see how those picks look in camp. Waiting to pretend that preseason football does it for you. And finally, waiting for kickoff on opening weekend. It is little wonder, then, that while sitting at his desk that February day (just weeks after the Super Bowl) Hunter chose these words to title his final letter.

Luckily for us, the 2010-2011 campaign is not yet over. My beloved Green Bay Packers will vie for the NFC Championship on Sunday against our oldest, fiercest rival--the Chicago Bears.

As the game approaches, and as I reflect on the Packers' run leading up to this point, one simple fact has made itself clearer to me than ever before, and that fact is this: Football is a feeling. It goes beyond simple sport. It's more than big games, big hits, touchdowns, wins and losses, etc.

Football the emotion is inside every fan. Like any emotion, pinning it down precisely is difficult. As with love, joy, anger, sorrow, or any other human emotion, football varies in scope, degree, and interpretation from person to person. Like love, one can only truly know football through experience.

When you get pissed that your wife scheduled your kid's birthday party during the game, that's football. When you lie in bed wondering how you can get out of your shift on Sunday, or whether you'll be able to make it without a job for a while if worse comes to worse, that's football. When your excitement over an event on or off the field is so intense that the only thing you can scream to do justice to the feeling is, "FOOTBALL!" well, you better believe that's football.

These are but a few examples of course, though I'm certain that if you are a fan you can think back and remember having felt it. For good or ill, football is an emotion that runs deep in those of us fortunate enough to know it. I believe that recognizing, understanding, and embracing football as an emotion is a critical step in growing as a fan and person.

The highs are incomparable, the lows are excruciating, and there's no better way to describe the entirety of it than by calling it what it is... FOOTBALL!