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Guest post by Mark Holcomb, the Blogtender’s cousin-in-law/former professional bartender/lead singer of The Sharpe James
I was raised by hippies… they were probably considered ex-hippies by the time the ’80s rolled around, but they were hippies nonetheless. My mother (who is a saint of a woman!) is the type of lady the who used to tote me around as an infant in one of those baby backpack-papoose contraptions, and who shed a tear or two when Jerry Garcia died. As for my father, well, he looks like Willie Nelson. Love him as I do there is no denying his hippydom. Unless you’re him, that is; he vehemently refutes this label for the sole reason that “hippies are too peaceful.” However, he is the same bass-playing, ponytail-rocking, bandana-wearing, beard-having, hitch-hiking Okie who once thought a good name for his firstborn son (that’s me) would be Thud Blues Holcomb. I only thank the sweet Lord Jesus that my momma had enough sense to name me after my grandfathers instead.
As you might imagine, having been brought up in this type of environment, my brothers and I were, to put it nicely, free-spirited individualists at a very early age. To paint a clearer picture of what that means exactly, I will say without a doubt that the term “driving me to drink” was coined for rugrats such as ourselves. While our wild behavior may have spawned many great discoveries, by far the grandest of them all is when my dear ol’ dad stumbled across what in my mind is a testament to the spirit of American ingenuity, and parental decorum.