Pure Poetry

One of the things I love about my novelist avocation is how the fruits of my research can lead me to such strange corners of the known world. Just now, while searching for the perfect brand of malt liquor to have a character drink (I settled on King Cobra), I came across a brew I’d never heard of, O’Keefe’s Extra Old Stock. And I don’t know, something about the name just tickled me. So I dug a little deeper. I found pictures…


Historical accounts…

I used to drink this when I first moved out on my own in Alberta. It was THE “cowboy malt likker” they sold at al the cabarets. My 3 roomies and I drank oceans of this stuff

And, most specially, this review:

Smells of wet socks and vomit, lumberjack shirts, and stale nicotine smoke. Tastes like cardboard and wool. These days when out in the cabin I prefer turpentine.

And that was such poetry that I just had to share it with you.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get back to work. Writing about drinking: It’s the next best thing to doing it.

More later, -jv

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