Outlaw By Proxy
Lets’ Consider Context - Misdemeanor Outlaw
It isn’t my fault that I’m an outlaw or that most of my life has been spent defining right and wrong in ways more relative to circumstance than legal code. Take this day in June for example. I’m in Horse Cave, Kentucky. Nobody in their right mind comes to Horse Cave, the birthplace of Hunter S. Thompson. Well, that’s just it. I was going to add some kind of appositive to that last statement – no one comes to Horse Cave for supply various reasons here – but there are none.
The town is simply devoid of any solid rationale that would make a weekend here worth a weekend here. Oh sure, the Smithsonian has a traveling exhibit of “American” music installed temporarily over the entrance to a huge cave where Indians once hid their horses.
But, the installation turns out to be mostly photos of hillbillies with empty jugs, Al Jolson characters in black face, and a couple of old Daguerreotypes of slaves stringing cat gut across cigar boxes for makeshift guitars. The cave itself seems to be mostly a dark hole with rock walls, and I had to pay to find that out.
Ostensibly, I am in Horse Cave to display and possible sell some of my books. Two very nice men, Mike and Andy, have staged a book festival for Kentucky authors in a large room next to their bookstore that bears a resemblance to the cave across the street. It’s their first effort and I applaud the motivation. But, no one is here to buy books except the other authors and they are an eclectic crowd ranging from ancient, snowy-haired men who write about Confederate ghosts to women in cowgirl outfits who write about beauty pageants.
Since writing is more of an urgent need for me than a hobby or dress up play date, I soon discover that I am once again infected with restlessness. The business of trying to sell books that follows creating them and the environment it puts me in is often boring. Although this atmosphere is far more pleasant than many conferences I’ve attended, I’m really not that interested in hustling my work like a snake oil salesman or carnival barker. This is because I’m sure my true genius will only by recognized posthumously along with insert your own name here.
Perhaps, a short walk around the corner somewhere a tavern will rise as an oasis in this desert of monotony. It is, after all, the home of Hunter Thompson.
Approaching my hosts for directions, I discover the reason Hunter left. The town is dry. I had forgotten that Kentucky is a state of contrasts. It produces some of the world’s best whiskey and yet within its boundaries counties have the option of refusing to sell any alcohol at all. Not only that, but someone has attached irony to this distinction. For example, Bourbon County is dry and Christian County is awash with various forms of liquid intoxicants.
The neon digits on the bank sign across the street read 107 degrees and no rain clouds appear anywhere near the horizon. – Side note to my fellow Kentucky residents who vote Republican: It’s JUNE, you dumb asses, and at least 25 degrees hotter that it should be. Climate change IS NOT “pie-in-the-sky” science fiction just because Rand Paul says so and by-the-way, Mitch McConnell makes money from your ignorance. –
The temperature and the lack of a tavern remind me of St. Thomas Aquinas, who must surely be in Hell for preaching temperance as a cardinal virtue. He often paraphrased the Apostle Paul’s Biblical principle that “an unjust law is no law at all.”
In the diamond bright sparkle of a summer sun, I understand perfectly the action that principle implies. “Where can I find a drink?” I ask Andy or maybe Mike. I am delirious by now. “You got to get back on I-65 and drive thirty miles to the exit for Bowling Green. There’s a liquor store at the intersection,” said one of them.
***
In the heart of Kentucky between Louisville and the Tennessee border, limestone creek beds, mineral rich grain, and the genius of ancient Celts have combined in brilliant synergism to create what we Irish call uisce beatha, the water of life. It is here I am breaking the law because the law is unjust. I admit it. I, James E. McGarrah, have taken a stand against tyranny.
Inside the liquor store my hosts directed me to I bought a bottle of bourbon, and its presence on the car seat tempts me beyond human endurance. Without considering the consequences and with another fifteen miles to drive back to the motel, I break the seal on the bottle and take a long pull.
Oh, don’t panic dear reader. There will be no drunk driving in this tale because I realize that for all my bluster and bravado I am nothing more than a misdemeanor outlaw by virtue of boredom.
I will not intentionally danger other people by hurtling down an interstate at 80 mph in a huge Lincoln while hammered on whiskey. I simply needed to obfuscate morality with legality in order to feel young and dangerous again.
This is a common occurrence with aging writers whose language often outstrips their deeds. Don’t get me wrong. I have been in the company of real outlaws on many occasions, certainly, but my days as a true desperado were very limited and influenced more by proximity than actual activity. I have always had more imagination than courage and more simple bad judgment than a true disdain for law and order.
I suspect these are traits widely assimilated into the more comfortable demographic of our American culture, we the people that don’t need to push legal boundaries for survival.
Our understanding of what constitutes “unjust” laws and our stand against those legal restrictions seem to be based, for the most part, on convenience rather than a struggle with the necessity of feeding a family or a war between good and evil. For example, most of us seem to think that speed limits are unnecessary, taxes are too high, and whatever we disagree with must surely be someone else’s fault.
This reasoning allows us the justification to fudge a little in our obedience to rules without the burden of guilt. The problem with this way of thinking comes to me as I take another long pull from my newly purchased and now, illegal, whiskey. We can and do use this logic to ignore our responsibilities to a community in favor of our own desires.
It is accurate to say that many rules passed by tyrants, corrupt politicians, rabid religious leaders, and corporate thieves are unjust. However, it does not always follow that wisdom instead of self-service, dictates which ones we choose to break, or that our reasons for breaking them are altruistic(in someone else’s best interest). This is a lesson I’m still learning as I take another drink from the bourbon bottle.
It isn’t my fault that I’m an outlaw or that most of my life has been spent defining right and wrong in ways more relative to circumstance than legal code. Take this day in June for example. I’m in Horse Cave, Kentucky. Nobody in their right mind comes to Horse Cave, the birthplace of Hunter S. Thompson. Well, that’s just it. I was going to add some kind of appositive to that last statement – no one comes to Horse Cave for supply various reasons here – but there are none.
The town is simply devoid of any solid rationale that would make a weekend here worth a weekend here. Oh sure, the Smithsonian has a traveling exhibit of “American” music installed temporarily over the entrance to a huge cave where Indians once hid their horses.
But, the installation turns out to be mostly photos of hillbillies with empty jugs, Al Jolson characters in black face, and a couple of old Daguerreotypes of slaves stringing cat gut across cigar boxes for makeshift guitars. The cave itself seems to be mostly a dark hole with rock walls, and I had to pay to find that out.
Ostensibly, I am in Horse Cave to display and possible sell some of my books. Two very nice men, Mike and Andy, have staged a book festival for Kentucky authors in a large room next to their bookstore that bears a resemblance to the cave across the street. It’s their first effort and I applaud the motivation. But, no one is here to buy books except the other authors and they are an eclectic crowd ranging from ancient, snowy-haired men who write about Confederate ghosts to women in cowgirl outfits who write about beauty pageants.
Since writing is more of an urgent need for me than a hobby or dress up play date, I soon discover that I am once again infected with restlessness. The business of trying to sell books that follows creating them and the environment it puts me in is often boring. Although this atmosphere is far more pleasant than many conferences I’ve attended, I’m really not that interested in hustling my work like a snake oil salesman or carnival barker. This is because I’m sure my true genius will only by recognized posthumously along with insert your own name here.
Perhaps, a short walk around the corner somewhere a tavern will rise as an oasis in this desert of monotony. It is, after all, the home of Hunter Thompson.
Approaching my hosts for directions, I discover the reason Hunter left. The town is dry. I had forgotten that Kentucky is a state of contrasts. It produces some of the world’s best whiskey and yet within its boundaries counties have the option of refusing to sell any alcohol at all. Not only that, but someone has attached irony to this distinction. For example, Bourbon County is dry and Christian County is awash with various forms of liquid intoxicants.
The neon digits on the bank sign across the street read 107 degrees and no rain clouds appear anywhere near the horizon. – Side note to my fellow Kentucky residents who vote Republican: It’s JUNE, you dumb asses, and at least 25 degrees hotter that it should be. Climate change IS NOT “pie-in-the-sky” science fiction just because Rand Paul says so and by-the-way, Mitch McConnell makes money from your ignorance. –
The temperature and the lack of a tavern remind me of St. Thomas Aquinas, who must surely be in Hell for preaching temperance as a cardinal virtue. He often paraphrased the Apostle Paul’s Biblical principle that “an unjust law is no law at all.”
In the diamond bright sparkle of a summer sun, I understand perfectly the action that principle implies. “Where can I find a drink?” I ask Andy or maybe Mike. I am delirious by now. “You got to get back on I-65 and drive thirty miles to the exit for Bowling Green. There’s a liquor store at the intersection,” said one of them.
***
In the heart of Kentucky between Louisville and the Tennessee border, limestone creek beds, mineral rich grain, and the genius of ancient Celts have combined in brilliant synergism to create what we Irish call uisce beatha, the water of life. It is here I am breaking the law because the law is unjust. I admit it. I, James E. McGarrah, have taken a stand against tyranny.
Inside the liquor store my hosts directed me to I bought a bottle of bourbon, and its presence on the car seat tempts me beyond human endurance. Without considering the consequences and with another fifteen miles to drive back to the motel, I break the seal on the bottle and take a long pull.
Oh, don’t panic dear reader. There will be no drunk driving in this tale because I realize that for all my bluster and bravado I am nothing more than a misdemeanor outlaw by virtue of boredom.
I will not intentionally danger other people by hurtling down an interstate at 80 mph in a huge Lincoln while hammered on whiskey. I simply needed to obfuscate morality with legality in order to feel young and dangerous again.
This is a common occurrence with aging writers whose language often outstrips their deeds. Don’t get me wrong. I have been in the company of real outlaws on many occasions, certainly, but my days as a true desperado were very limited and influenced more by proximity than actual activity. I have always had more imagination than courage and more simple bad judgment than a true disdain for law and order.
I suspect these are traits widely assimilated into the more comfortable demographic of our American culture, we the people that don’t need to push legal boundaries for survival.
Our understanding of what constitutes “unjust” laws and our stand against those legal restrictions seem to be based, for the most part, on convenience rather than a struggle with the necessity of feeding a family or a war between good and evil. For example, most of us seem to think that speed limits are unnecessary, taxes are too high, and whatever we disagree with must surely be someone else’s fault.
This reasoning allows us the justification to fudge a little in our obedience to rules without the burden of guilt. The problem with this way of thinking comes to me as I take another long pull from my newly purchased and now, illegal, whiskey. We can and do use this logic to ignore our responsibilities to a community in favor of our own desires.
It is accurate to say that many rules passed by tyrants, corrupt politicians, rabid religious leaders, and corporate thieves are unjust. However, it does not always follow that wisdom instead of self-service, dictates which ones we choose to break, or that our reasons for breaking them are altruistic(in someone else’s best interest). This is a lesson I’m still learning as I take another drink from the bourbon bottle.
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