Tuesday, October 13, 2009

A secret revealed, if I may: whenever the post stamp reads 11:59 PM, it’s a sure sign I’m logging into Blogger at a wholly unreasonable hour, fiddling with the very time-space continuum itself to ensure our discussion falls on a Tuesday, such is the need for posterity. It’s actually 1:27 in the morning on the fourteenth of October, in the year of our Lord two-thousand-nine, and I’m at the tail end of an evening flush with alcoholic enrichment. It feels like I just finished a seminar on drinking, in fact, and were I to grade myself, I’d dole out a solid “C.” An effort was made, but there remains much room for improvement.

Alcohol, along with all its odd little customs, is still foreign to me, and at times it feels like I’m a pilgrim in an unholy land. First, let’s talk about taste. Certainly it’s a subjective matter, but the buck has to stop somewhere, right? Even though our tastebuds differ in sensitivity, they’re still tastebuds in the end, and it simply boggles the mind how anybody can honestly claim something like scotch is delicious. It’s an acquired taste, you might say. Acquired from where, though? An unmarked van behind the Red Lobster with a driver in a trench coat? I’ve heard it’s an old people drink, and after sampling some tonight, I’ve got to believe the elderly are actually mixed into this horrific concoction.

Taste aside, there are a few other reasons for imbibing. There’s the social aspect. Here, the ritual of shots is a qualified spectacle, where groups of people partake in feats of synchronized swallowing. I mean, shit. Do you see this pattern occurring anywhere else in the known world? Let’s say you were dining at a tapas joint. The party next to you orders a round of cheese plates. The food arrives, it’s shared evenly, and then– And then faces are buried directly into plates in a mad rush to eat as quickly as possible. It’d be grotesque! Similarly, I don’t believe monkeys congregate around a puddle of rainwater and then pound back the stuff in concert. Nor would the pythons who wish to eat said monkeys wait for even distribution, then gather in a circle for simultaneous digestion.

And finally there’s the potency of alcohol. This is the primary reason for imbibing, obviously, and it’s here I’ve made the most progress. For me, it’s an exploration of my limits. Let’s be clear: I’ve yet to wander anywhere near hangover country. I’m dealing solely with buzzes at this point, which, since I’m usually so high-strung, primarily serve to normalize me. After a drink or two, driving seems manageable enough, though serious curves require just a bit more focus. I’ve also discovered I’m largely immune to the Asian flush, possibly because I think I’m white. And tonight, here, a mojito, two-thirds of a Long Island iced tea, and a half-dozen exploratory sips later, I’ve managed to avoid chaining, like, three nouns in a row, followed by a string of Bs. Truly it is a miracle, and there shall be rejoicing unto the ringing of my alarm clock.