By the time I had escaped the Gulag back in 2012 I had met a diverse cast of scoundrels and miscreants. There had been a time when I thought that the cultural sociopathy of the Willis-Knighton system was tough. You can’t be a pussy and live through that. But trust me, there are worse places. At the ripe old age of 68 I’m still standing.

Still in practice for over four decades I can’t imagine leaving it behind. I was enraptured by Anesthesia as a teenager. I love it just as much today, perhaps more.
There are elements of the subculture of surgery and anesthesia that are impossible to understand unless you live it. I will make no attempts to describe it here.

When I am away from bad hospital coffee and hospital cafeteria food for more than two weeks I begin failing to thrive. My body needs it. I’m sure that most all vegan joggers will live longer than me, but they will never have experienced hospital cafeteria chili at 2:30 in the morning. Lethal to harmful pathogens, that middle of the night chili will kill them all.

All elements of society show up in medical practice. It has always fascinated me. From trash to nobility, they are all there. But the best and most heroic people in health care never receive proper recognition.

Doctors and nurses in places like Claiborne Medical Center don’t have the luxury of a specialty when heart attacks and trauma come through their doors. No medical specialist would survive a single day in their shoes. These nurses and doctors live and thrive on the true front lines of medicine. They are the best and the brightest. It has been a truly wonderful place to spend the remainder of my Anesthesia practice.

I have collected an eclectic group of brilliant and eccentric friends along my life’s journey. From rednecks to royalty, from outlaws to judges, from gentlemen to rogues. I lost one this year. It’s hard to know that he is gone. Between him and my older brother it’s a miracle we lived this long. My brother and I laughed so hard and so loud at his funeral that the nice people in church stared at us. It was because they didn’t really know Jim or who the three of us were when we were together. Being in his presence was somewhere between terror and exhilaration. From machine guns to explosives, from whiskey to hard living, I wouldn’t believe the stories myself. We should have all gone to federal prison at least once. His funeral was a great celebration of what a wonderful, boorish, larger than life rogue he really was. Jim really never left the Marine Corp. Wherever he is now, he is still a Marine.

Now at 68 I am a proud and studious cuisine whore, shitty bassist, lover of Stan Getz and Oscar Peterson, John Coltrane and Vivaldi. Don’t hug me unless you are a woman or somebody close to you died. I hate camping, love fine hotels, our beach home and being on houseboats or anywhere else with my amazing family who have tolerated all of my ridiculous bullshit for all these years. They stuck with me and we are a finer, closer bunch than ever before.

I did however tell AJ that I would sell him to two Mexican guys for $5. I was just kidding. But he still owes me two dollars. See you this weekend you little butthole! And you better have my two dollars!

Not many of you realize that tomorrow is the first day of hunting season. I know how ridiculous that sounds to a bunch of metrosexuals who actually sip latte’, wear funny underwear, hug trees, love endangered toad frogs and whale fetuses, wear designer jeans and keep up with the Kardashians. But for the rest of Southern men who still enjoy black coffee, keeping a chainsaw in our truck, adjusting ourselves, wearing Levi’s, peeing outdoors and drinking the juice out of a can of Vienna sausage——getting real serious about the 2018 hunting season is about to get real serious! I mean seriously!

For example; I have been working on the new winch I installed on the back of my Mule all day today. That’s right—— I now have front AND rear winches. That’s called keeping it real! I’ve never actually needed two winches but, well, I think it’s what Jesus would do.

Now this winch thing is not to be confused with “wenches”. Wenches can be located at shopping malls, tanning salons, fitness clubs, Starbucks and these strange new places called Ulta, or something like that.
A wench on the front and back of your ATV—-not good. They don’t typically enjoy black coffee, peeing outside or drinking Vienna sausage juice. There are rare exceptions. You know who you are Susan.

The advanced purchasing of proper hunting couture begins tomorrow as well. We’re not talking haute couture here. Show up wearing an ascot, a cape and playing jazz music, you might just get your ass kicked. But we all know, all of us real men, that you become completely invisible to all wildlife if your camo matches. It must match! Even if you have a closet full of awesome camo—-go get some more. I hear there are camo pants that have built in urinals this year. Only $375! How savvy is that! Drink all the juice and black coffee you want and your wench won’t have to endure your roadside stops.

More next month.