Although silence is golden, in lieu of polishing that medal I'll post this thing, written back in '99 (as was the Brenner piece). It is proof positive that ye olde journal is nearly completely mined:
Remembering imaginary Uncle Coot
We were sitting in a duck blind, drinking sour mash and cheap wine. As a kid I pondered the rope-like sags in his neck; it looked like some sort of corrugated cardboard. He had hands with skin soft and pink on one side and brown, reptilian on the other. I stared as his hands wondering how they got the way.
There was something in Uncle Coot I longed to emulate although I wasn’t quite sure what it was. It wasn’t the drinking, although I’d done that in quantities and eventually found that I’d get too far behind in my reading if it continued. It wasn’t the perennial bachleorhood - Coot hadn’t had sex since the Ford Administration. It wasn’t the duck hunting, because the inertia it took to get up at 6 am and stand in the middle of a Tennessee bog was hard to overcome. I couldn’t quite put a finger on it, try as I may. It might’ve been that care free attitude or that rebel streak. He smoked Camel cigarettes and never once worried about lung cancer or lip cancer or cancer of the esophagus or cancer of the lining of the throat. He didn’t much care for the Surgeon General, saying that “that sum-bitch prolly's afraid to go outside.” Ol' Uncle Coot was an earthy sort and I miss ‘im.
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