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The Second Coming

July 19, 2008 2:59 am Frank Drunken Raving No Comments

Not entirely sure why, but my mind always turns to this excellent Yeats poem when I’m shellacked:

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

WB Yeats

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Beasts of Boozing

July 12, 2008 5:14 pm Frank Alcohol AV No Comments

This 1972 educational film features a novice drinker taking in a swinging grownup basement shindig. It’s interesting in that instead of relying on the traditional Authoritarian Voice Over promising doom and destruction, it craftily attempts to soft-sell its anti-booze message in a somewhat subtle manner: with the help of his old friend television, the young observer slowly absorbs the idea that hard drinking encourages the grownups to behave as wild beasts. Examples of animal behavior include aggressive snacking, unbridled singing of foreign songs, wanton thrusting of cleavage, salacious staring, public displays of affection, blatant yawning, loony laughter–the works.

Not sure how many teenagers this turned off of drinking. Most likely had the opposite effect.

Online Videos by Veoh.com

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Drunkards: Keepers of Mixological Acumen

July 7, 2008 12:05 pm Richard Rant 2 Comments

Serious drinkers are a curiosity-seeking, educated lot. We like to know what others are sipping, not (usually) to aid in our passing judgment on them, but for the much simpler reason that it’s fun. Plus, we might never have encountered that particular cocktail, which means it needs to be sampled and appended to our synaptic drinks databases. This doesn’t happen very often, though, because most of us drinkers know our mixology, even for those beverages we don’t regularly requisition. Sadly, we sometimes encounter a bartender who is foggy on the specifics of our desired tipple. Arriving at this crossroads we have two options. One, we can simplify our order (while grumbling inwardly about the speed at which American cocktail culture is careening toward the Abyss), or Two, we can suck it up and help the bartender along. Generally, I don’t object to walking an uninformed bartender through the basics of my desired drink. If nothing else, my assistance goes a long way toward ensuring I get what I’m thirsty for. And besides, most bartenders don’t mind a little schooling, as there is a direct correlation between a broad knowledge base and increased gratuities.

The upshot is this: accomplished drunks should always encourage others to guzzle liberally from our reservoirs of tipsy erudition. Desire and accomplishment are two very different things, however, which can make disseminating intelligence to the disadvantaged far more disquieting and wearisome than it ought to be.

To wit: a brace of true stories, recorded here with as much fidelity as I can manage. I was half (okay, three-quarters) in the bag on both occasions, and even when stone sober my short-term memory rivals that of the fruit fly. All I can say is I did my best.

True Tale #1

A week or so ago I was in a liquor store picking up a few bottles of liquid restorative, and found myself third in line to pay. The clerk was busy with the woman at the head of the queue (who seemed not to grasp the concept of sales tax), so, thinking to kill a minute or two, I gestured at the middle guy’s stuff—a twelver of MGD, a handle of Stoli, and some Rose’s lime juice—and said, “Well, that ought a get you through tonight, anyhow.” The guy chuckled and allowed that he’d had a crappy day. The remainder of our tête-à-tête went roughly as follows.

ME: That sucks. Good thing you have drinks to look forward to.

GUY: Yup. Gonna have Manhattans. ‘Bout twenty of ‘em.

Nodding appreciatively, I took another quick gander at his purchases.

ME: Manhattans and some vodka-tonics, too, maybe.

GUY: Nah. I hate vodka-tonics. Stoli’s only for my Manhattans.

And thus, a crossroads. He seemed to be an amiable enough fellow, though, so I forged ahead, donning a polite smile.

ME: Isn’t a Manhattan made with rye or bourbon?

GUY: Huh-uh. Vodka.

ME: I don’t think so… A Manhattan is rye, either sweet or dry vermouth and a splash of bitters.

GUY: (with a look that suggested his willingness to take pity on me.) You’re wrong there. Trust me. I’ve been drinking Manhattans a long time.

ME: No doubt. But—

At that moment the clerk finished with the commerce-challenged lady and motioned for my new buddy to step right up. He spun away from me and fiddled with his wallet while the clerk rang him up, at which point he handed over a credit card, applied his autograph to the slip, and gathered his purchases. He paused at the door, staring at me, wearing a little smirk.

GUY: You should buy a Mr. Boston or somethin’.

ME: Why? I already know how to make a Manhattan.

GUY: (his smirk faltering) I was a bartender for almost three years.

ME: Further proof that longevity and skill don’t always go together.

GUY: Hey, go fuck yourself you fat fuck! Fuck you!

And he vaulted through the door and out of my life. I watched the space where he had been for a moment, then realized the clerk was looking at me.

CLERK: That guy’s a fool. I don’t know what he’s gonna drink, but it sure ain’t no Manhattan.

ME: Think I should a kept my mouth shut?

CLERK: Hell no. Bet’cha he goes home and Googles “Manhattans.”

ME: (laughing) We can only hope…

And, with that, I went about my business.

True Tale #2

The events which comprise my second story took place in a bar, three or four nights ago. It was about ten o’clock and the evening had been quite kind to me and my two companions. The sauce, as they say, was flowing. Most of the customers were sitting at tables, so we had the oak largely to ourselves.