Word: drunkeness
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Shortly before midnight last May 5, an Army veteran named Joe Campos Torres, 23, was arrested for shouting insults and threatening customers at the Club 21, located in a Mexican-American community on Houston's east side. Wearing Army fatigues and combat boots, Torres appeared drunk but apparently healthy when police officers took him away. A few hours later, when the police brought him to jail, he was so badly bruised that duty officers refused to book him. They told the arresting officers to take Torres to Ben Taub General Hospital for treatment. Instead, six policemen drove...
Like the trailing aftermath of a tremendous fireworks display, we poured off the bus, into "Red Sox Country", already sunburnt and still cooking, consuming all our worries and frustrations in a wanderlust inferno. June and her road chum went to a bar to get drunk, the retired amateur golfers hauled themselves over to the Holiday Inn, and I was suddenly alone again, hitching up the road to the Red Sox training camp at Chain-O-Lakes Park out on Cypress Boulevard, where the Boston sportswriters were furiously clucking away at their plastic portable typewriters with half-crazed treachery written...
...People think it's a big deal being in pro ball, but it's just like anything else. It's frustrating because things never turn out exactly the way you want." He was drunk and stoned, and he sat there all fizzed-out waiting for me to open the door...
...with fond parodies ("You Don't Have to Call Me Darlin', Darlin', But You Never Even Call Me By My Name"), rocking mockers ("Up Against The Wall, Redneck Mother"), chomping satires ("My Whole World Lies Waiting Behind Door Number Three"), love-into-lust songs ("Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw"), and bitter-enders much bleaker than the usual tears-in-beers ("Sam Stone: There's A Hole in Daddy's Arm Where All the Money Goes"). The sound was a lot cleaner than the Nashville over-productions in the early '70s, but the revolution, the genre-busting...
...more: this year it's casinos and yachtbasins. That's how he's gone from songs like "The Great Peanut Butter Conspiracy," about shoplifting in the hard times, to songs like Son of a Son's "My African Friend." He meets an African guy gambling in Martinique, they get drunk and Buffett scrapes himself up off some steps the next morning to find the guy gone. Sure was a good time, though, huh? There's no bite to it and nothing...