I already have two strikes against me: one, I am a Yankee, two a girl. I don't want to strike out because I'm a teetotaler, especially since I quickly surmise that this bunch of headstrong chauvinists casts wary eyes on the nondrinking population. After all, they are from Jacksonville, Florida — moonshine terrain — and anyone who can swallow Mother Nature's attempt at nailpolish remover and not frown can tipple to next Thursday and not notice. I know that there is no way I'm going to keep up with this bunch of barflies. However, even Lynyrd Skynyrd can get their whistles a little too wet— and after that it's only a matter of time before they're in their cups... on the floor, on the table...

As Gary Rossington gets fuzzier around the edges, he loosens his muzzle a little, and, bending towards little ol' Yankee me, reveals in all sincerity that he is a redneck. "I was born and brought up that way, and I still am a redneck, to this very day."

"Yeah?" I respond, non-plussed, waiting for him to continue, or at least

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