… Like My Women

Am I an alcoholic, drunk, casual drinker, or non-drinker? Yes.

Doctors will say that booze is bad for you. I say, like masturbation, it depends on the perspective. For example, beating off in your bedroom when nobody is watching is healthy. (Please put down a towel.) Beating off in the produce aisle of Ralphs is unhealthy. Similarly, drinking to make people and situations more tolerable is certainly healthy. Doing so while teaching kindergarten, not so much.

Alcohol works for me in many ways. It lowers my inhibitions. This helps me to avoid being that creepy guy on the corner of the bar staring at landscaping designs on his phone. While making me less attractive (unless I’m buying), booze makes other people more attractive. As my nose reddens and speech slurs, all age, height, and political differences melt away. If she crosses an outside leg toward me, I’m ordering another bourbon and taking things to SEXCON Level 2.

What’s the source of my love for all things fermented? Partially genetic, no doubt. Pop was a boozer. When he got home after a twelve-hour warehouse shift, it was liver workout time. The Budweiser delivery boy (me) presented a steady stream of cans to the Budweiser disposal unit (Pop). Then, right before bed, Pop would tip a few ounces of Seagrams into a glass, slam it, then stagger off to snoredom. Mom didn’t drink much, or maybe she did — just not around the munchkins. Don’t know if I ever saw her drunk. She did like Sambuca. Sambuca is the nectar of the godless.

Another cause for my tipsy trend is that I have worked in bars since 1980. I’m quite comfortable on both sides of the bar. As I prefer my drinks like my women (cold and strong), you’d be happy to encounter me as your beverage dispenser. You won’t catch me pouring any booze into a silly little measuring cup. That’s sinful. Nor, will you notice my lips moving as I count, “one one-thousand, two one-thousand.” A crime against humanity. Should you order from me, you will leave with sufficient alcohol density to make your night more interesting.

Do I prefer hard liquor, wine, or beer? Yes.

Now that I have moved close to wine country, I have been leaning more toward grapeness. Though discerning, I am not snobby. Life truly is too short to skip dessert and drink cheap wine, but cheap wine is better than no wine. I also like my wine like my women (somewhat dry and dark with great legs). I’ve already joined one winery, which encourages my visitation since tasting is free. Can one obtain sufficiently lowered will and expectations by imbibing only 1.5 ounces at a time? Certainly.

There are people who should not drink because they can’t keep themselves in the fun zone. I respect that. More for me. In the same way, I should not eat kale. It makes me angry and miserable. I don’t care if it makes my doo-doo firmer. Fuck kale. In fact, I like my kale like my women.

To wish to be well is a part of becoming well.

failmessage(quote by Seneca)

Some days the sun is too bright, the alarm is too loud, and the distance between me and Morning Joe is too great. Yet, these are the symptoms of a fun evening, many of the details of which are foggy due to booze-induced amnesia. If you’ve ever gone day-drinking, you know what I’m referring to, especially if it turned into night-drinking.

Your intentions going in are pure:

  • I’ll pace myself.
  • I’ll mix in an ice-water between drinks.
  • I’ll be sure to eat something.
  • No tequila.
  • No shots. Ok, maybe one shot, but that’s the limit. Nothing fruity, and I’m not dropping anything into a beer.
  • I’ll slow down those final few hours and make sure I get home safely and to bed early.
  • I’m not texting, calling, or hooking up with any exes.
  • No late-night greasy Mexican food.
  • I’m not spending more than fifty dollars.
  • I won’t leave my credit card at any bars.

The next morning, as you unload the final remnants of Jack from your bladder, you stare forward trying to remember what happened, hoping you can’t recall the cringe-worthy parts.

“I’m not drinking again … ever–well, at least not for the rest of this week.”

“Where did I park?”

“Why are there tater tots in my pocket, and are they still good?”

“Did I really pee in a planter?”

“Where are my shoes?”

“Did Connie really throw up in her husband’s beer?”


Then, you begin your reconnaissance mission, which usually starts with your wallet or purse.

“Thank god, my debit card is here. Naturally, there’s no cash. What is this pill?”

“Whose business card is this? Alex. Hm. That could be a boy or a girl. To the shredder, just to be safe.”

“Whose panties are these? What size are they? Oh, no.”

“Did I eat the other half of this burrito?”

“Where are my keys?”


Next, you reluctantly pick up your phone. The battery is dead, no doubt. You plug it in, wait for the unlock slider to appear, then wince as you check text messages, photos taken, and calls placed.

“I don’t recognize this number. Where is area code 612? Fuck, I dialed it four times after midnight.”

“Why did Jason send me a picture of his dog’s ass?”

“When did I install this Man-on-Man app?”

“My ex texted ‘OMFG.’ This isn’t good.”

“Why was I searching for baba ganoush recipes?”


Then you sign onto Facebook, and look for clues and evidence.

“Why did I check in at a women’s clinic?”

“I’m tagged in this picture, but I don’t see … oh, that must be me lying on the floor. Why am I wearing pumps? Pink is so not my color.”

“I posted a status update with three misspellings and an oddly-placed tilde.”

“Why is Hugh Janus friending me?”

“Here’s a karaoke photo of me and a crackhead-looking dude singing ‘Baby Love.'”


It’s green tea til further notice.

In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.

towelette(quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson)

I just read on MSN about an Italian woman who just turned 101. Her daily diet includes two glasses of wine with lunch, a glass of Southern Comfort before dinner, and a can of Bud after dinner. This lovely specimen must have genetic ties to me, because I plan on living to 101, and gathering quite a few souvenir corks along the way. Fermentation makes life more interesting. Sure, I could replace that evening beverage with an iced tea, but then there’s the caffeine-at-night thing. Plus, I’d lose the most convenient excuse for the silly things I say and do. I can’t very well defend licking a stranger’s neck by offering a plea of “high on tea.”

Place an alcoholic beverage in front of me, and nothing is boring. When I begin to drift or feel a yawn approaching, I simply bring glass to lip and sip. No story is too long, too often repeated, or too far-fetched. Wine makes it fine.

Then there’s sex. As long as the sex doesn’t include a sober, no-fun person, it’s better on the rocks. Kindly ignore the beer burps, and enjoy the ride.

“Hey, you know (hic) what? I wanna do it doggie-style.”

“So, you want me to do it with one leg up, or would you like me to chew your ear like hide?”

“Stop, silly. I mean the position. Get behind me.”

“Fuck, I’m dizzy.”

“If you throw up on my back, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Right. Hey, wait a minute. I think I need a pillow.”


“We aren’t aligning properly. I think I’ve spent the last five minutes fucking your knee-pit.”


“It’s not entirely awful, actually.”

“Here, I’ll guide you.”

“Ah, there we go. Hold on. We’re off rhythm.”


“I mean, I’m thrusting while you’re going forward. Since this is doggie, maybe I should leash you. Grrrowl!”

“You’re not leashing me. Here, grab my hips.”

“Oh, then there’s that way–the more conventional, sober, unmemorable way.”

“All right. How can we make it better, mister?”


“Ouch! Fucker!”

“You like that, don’t you, you naughty little girl.”

“No, that hurt.”

“Did not.”


“Hey! One more time, and I’ll pull your balls so hard you’ll be able to see out of your scrotum.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Let’s try another position. Get on top of me.”

“I’m dizzy again, and I think my Willy is caught. I’m stuffing sheets into your holy area.”

“Great. Lift up. All better. I’ll put this pillow under my butt to help you out.”

“Good idea. Hey, that’s my pillow.”


“OK, let’s do this.”


“Yes, darling.”

“What did the caddy say to the horrible golfer?”

“I give up.”

“Wrong hole!”

“Ha ha ha, that’s funny … oh, shit. Sorry.”

“That’s OK, but now you have to wash it off before it goes where it belongs.”

“Can you clean it for me?”


“Ugh. Now I have to wait until the water gets warm. Say, do we have any moist towelettes? Oh my god. I just had an idea for a great invention. Bedside sex wipes!”

“While you’re up, Mr. Newton, think you can discover my wine glass?”

“Just remember it’s my idea. No stealzies.”

Can’t Drink That

It has been a bumpy road to the Majors. Our livers have gone through much, haven’t they? Oh, come on. You must recall such indulgences as Fire Water, Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, and chartreuse (*gag*). When I think of all the things I’ve put my body through it amazes me that I can remember my name, last four digits, and where I left my damn keys.

The next time you walk into a bar, take note of the bottles on the top shelves and the dust they’ve accumulated. In the middle, you’ll find my buddy, Galliano. He’s taller than the rest and neglected more than most. Mix him with cola and you get something close to root beer that will, indeed, make you suicidal if you overdose. He gets points for a pretty bottle. He gets lonely because of the icky yellow liquid within.

An early favorite of mine was sloe gin. Jesus, that’s some gross shit right there. Yes, I’ve had a sloe gin fizz or fifty (and no, not while doing a limbo). I haven’t seen it around lately. It had a saturation of red that would instantly destroy any garment it came in contact with. I probably have a pink, pissed-off liver.

One day, a kind bartender turned me on to something much less vile: the Singapore Sling. This hangover seed was a funky combination of cherry-flavored brandy, gin, and sour mix. It was served in a frosted, tall glass with a big straw and a cherry. Yum. Then again, after a half dozen of those, my nose went numb and I parked on the lawn.

I tried to save money during my college years by indulging in such delicacies as Malt Apple Duck and Tango. (I apologize if I’ve just caused you mouth-puke a bit.) The former came in a 40-ounce bottle and tasted indeed like apple beer. The latter was what you’d get if you were foolish enough to mix cheap vodka with Tang. I drank a few of those my sophomore year and learned how to release fluid from both ends simultaneously. Don’t even act like you’ve never.

There was a club back in the who-gives-a-shit 80s that featured a Thursday night deal that probably wasn’t a great idea. It was $10 for all you can drink all night–anything you want. If I were the seasoned pro I am now, I would opt for something velvety on the rocks. As a twenty-something dingbat, I ordered Black Russians and lost consciousness. Who drinks Black Russians? Dumb white Italians, that’s who.

Before anyone came up with more vodka flavors than Baskin Robbins, we had three choices: vodka, cherry vodka, and (God forbid) lime vodka. If you drank lime vodka, you had definitely given up on life and were choosing a gutter nap. Anyone who polished off fifths of that neon green nonsense must now be pushing around a rusty shopping cart while yelling at imaginary beings.

So, now we’re left with micro-brews and SoCo lime. B&J and Zima are fading away. We’ll never pass around a bottle of Giacobazzi again. Sad.