Mountain Musings with Uncle Mott

Scotch & Soda

About 50 years ago, when I was starting out in the record retailing business, I kept my first record store in the OC open until 9 p.m. on Christmas Eve for the convenience of those last-minute shoppers who, like myself, needed to pick up some last-minute items.
Luckily, my store was located next door to Thrifty Drug Store (now Rite Aid), which stayed open until 10 p.m. Also, luckily, Thrifty had everything anybody could ever need or want, not to mention that I was able to complete all of my Christmas shopping in just over one hour.
This year, ever the procrastinator, I finally garnered the courage to go Christmas shopping at Target on Christmas Eve. What luck – hardly anyone else was there! Also, luckily, everything was discounted 10 percent. For Christmas Eve, I did something a little different this year; instead of leaving Santa a glass of milk, which he rarely drinks anyway, I left him a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch. The next morning, that bottle was completely empty and Santa was sacked out on top of his sack of goodies and toys.
Scotch and soda, mud in your eye, baby do I feel high, oh me, oh my, do I feel high. Dry martini, jigger of gin, oh what a spell you’ve got me in, oh me, oh my, do I feel high. (“Scotch & Soda” – Kingston trio – 1958)
When Santa finally came to the next morning, I offered him a Bloody Mary, while he tuned into the Yule Log marathon on Channel 5 – his choice, not mine – on my new flat-screen TV…hope it doesn’t spy on me like the last one. By the way, Santa, how did you get that flat screen down the chimney? Anyway, if Santa still hasn’t made it to your house, I apologize for the delay.
Again, luckily, Santa slid back down the chimney here at the stately Motley Manor the very next day and left me a bottle of my favorite Scotch. Now I have something with which to celebrate the arrival of the New Year, whilst I ponder a New Year’s resolution. Actually, I’m not much for New year’s resolutions. Besides, who ever keeps them anyway?
But just before he staggered back up the chimney, Santa resolved to go on the wagon (Are you sure that wasn’t a sleigh, Santa?) and never again touch a drop of Scotch. I’d do the same, but I really do love my Black Label. And, besides, no one would ever believe me.
People won’t believe me, they’ll think that I’m just braggin’, but I could feel the way I do and still be on the wagon. All I need is one of your smiles, sunshine of our eyes, oh me, oh my, do I feel higher than a kite can fly. Give me lovin’, baby, I feel high.
Keep it flyin’,
Uncle Mott