Still Tea

The improv fest goes on, but naturally I have other things going on in my life. I was, as I wrote yesterday's post, spacing out in hopes of finding inspiration. My eyes settled on what was in front of me, and I lazily resigned myself to write about what I saw, which was my tea cup. It had come from IKEA, and it's a dainty thing. I hadn't used it much was I was mainly drinking coffee, but it is showing signs of heavy use now.

I've drunk a few hundred cups of tea, I would guess. There were five cups and saucers, but there are now only two of the cups. I know how one of them went away- when a roommate broke the handle- but the others are a mystery to me. I know I didn't break them, but why fall into recriminations? Things break and are replaced. At least I still have the saucers. Maybe I can find new cups that fit the old saucers.

In Vino A Better Writer

I don't drink all that much. I drink a fair amount on occasion, but in daily life, it's one drink here and one drink there. Certainly I make sure to curtail it when I need to be sharp, although needing to create and needing to be sharp do not necessarily coincide. Performing is a time when I can't drink. I know many who can, but I find that any gains that I make in loosened inhibitions are outweighed by simple biological problems like a dry mouth or a need for the restroom.

Writing is another story, and if I've said anything about this in the past, let's hope that something has changed or that I have some kind of fresh perspective. Interesting things happen when I drink and write. It's actually easier to focus. The alcohol slows me down, but I think it may be something like putting a wild horse in a harness. It maybe can't go as fast as it would otherwise, but its speed now can be directed to a purpose. Putting one hundred percent of reduced thinking power towards a goal is a net gain.

Yet To Learn

There are constant reminders that I am not as bullet-proof at the age of thirty as I was at the age of twenty. Rest assured, I'm still perfectly young and make not claims to the contrary, but I nonetheless am not as impervious to harm or as quick to recover from it as I maybe once was. A good example of that is when I'm drinking. I don't think I'm any more or less quickly affected by it- which is to say that I reach a point of intoxication just when I ever did- but the hangover is something else.

It seems as if it was not so long ago that I could drink heavily in the evening and be fully recovered the next day. That is not so anymore, and if I've addressed this before, then that can surely be chalked up to the effects of the same thing. These days, I am plagued with queasiness and headaches for the whole next day, and sometimes it seems to take more time than that. It's a really terrible feeling, and I could do without it.

My Mistake

I learned something yesterday. I had assumed, not unreasonably I think, that Southern Comfort was a bourbon. It seemed to obviously be a whiskey of some persuasion, since that is where they stock it in the grocery store. Assumptions are not wise though, and I shouldn't have made this one. I bought a bottle of the stuff thinking it was bourbon. By the time I got home, I was starting to wonder why that word didn't appear on the bottle. I would just check online to be sure, I thought. Sure enough, it's just a liqueur made of "neutral spirits".

Of course I resolved to return the misleading bottle of booze, and I did so perhaps a couple hours later. On my way, a man remarked on my "So Co". I surmised after a moment of thought that he must mean the Southern Comfort, of whose nicknames I am as ignorant as I am of its actual composition. He seemed to be pleased that I had it, and I informed him that I was returning it. Given that cover, he admitted he thought very little of it as well.

A First In Slaking Thirst

I was at a birthday party the other night. This one was distinguished from the rest by a number of things, among them being its extreme distance from home and the fact that I was attending it after having come more or less directly from an improv performance. It took place at a bar, which is all too common, but I was not entirely sorry for that on this occasion. The birthday girl sang with her band, there was pole dancing, and much gaiety.

I bought myself a drink on arriving, and took my time in drinking it. Soon enough though, I found I had  exhausted it. I was resigned to buying myself another drink, when something rather incredible happened. A couple of guys came over, complimenting my mustache. That happens sometimes, and it is regrettably seldom that the compliment comes from an appealing source. It never comes from a woman.

A Notable Potable

I bought a bottle of rye whiskey. I've been meaning to buy some for a while. I think that the last time I had some liquor at home must have been at least a couple years ago, incredibly enough. I'd bought a bottle of Irish whiskey, and it was my intention to make a regular thing of having a drink in the evening while reading or writing. I'd like to think it was never an affectation. I do enjoy the whiskey, and it has a certain positive influence.

Anyway, this new whiskey is rather interesting. As I said, it's rye whiskey. Specifically it's Maple rye. Lest you think otherwise, I will stress that you can unquestionably taste the maple in it. The whiskey is a bit sweet by comparison with others, but it is definitely smoother than most as well. Other whiskeys can be rather harsh and difficult to drink on their own, but this one does fine without any help, I have found.

Save It

I'm not much for wasting things. I would even say that what separates me from hoarders is just the money the acquire the things in the first place. The point is that when I have something, I feel an obligation to make the most of it, even when it's not longer what it was. Food is a pretty good example. I'm not about to eat spoiled food of course, but what some would throw away without a thought I am apt to suffer through because I spent a dollar on it.

The other night I was hanging out with some friends, and we were drinking. When I was ready to leave, I was only partway through a drink. Now, it would look better if I left it behind, sending the message that I don't need that beer or that I can afford to let it go to waste. That just wouldn't be true, of course, and these friends I wouldn't worry about putting on airs. I announced my departure and took my beer along with me.

Ready And Waiting

I don't buy a lot of alcohol these days. I buy some, generally as needed for larger gatherings. I don't keep any around as a rule anymore, though I used to. When I was newly old enough to drink, I habitually bought beer and hard alcohol, never drinking to excess but drinking a little most days. My intention was to develop a working knowledge of the various types and brands, so I tried never to buy the same thing twice.

A remaining trace of my old buying habits is at my parents' house. There are still a number of bottles that I bought when I still lived there. This is some four or five years ago at least. They don't touch it, and I'm there so seldom that I have no more than a few drinks there in a year. I'd say that it's all getting better with age, but the sorts of liquor that we're talking about are already as good as they can get right on the store's shelf.

A Night

For the first time in a while, I went to see some improv at a particular theater in Hollywood. It was IO West, to be precise. A friend and I went down there on the subway, and if we were responsible we would have been headed home in plenty of time to catch the train back. Instead, our parting from friends delivered us into the hands of one unsavory character after another. This is typical for any late night excursion to Hollywood, so maybe there was nothing we could have done.

I've written about how rough late night buses can be around here. The 656 from Hollywood up to the San Fernando Valley was in rare form, and maybe it reflects poorly on me, but I recognized people. My friend and I didn't manage to breathe easily until we had gotten off the bus. I always seem to be counting the seconds until I expect that bus to arrive at my destination. It never can get there fast enough. On this night, there was a peculiar trio of women.

The Slaking Point

They say that if you put a lobster in a cold pot of water and gradually turn up the heat to boiling, he will never notice and consequently never make a fuss, whereas if you plop him into boiling water to begin with, he would scramble madly in a desperate bid to save his life. The point is that things that happen so gradually are hard to track by feel, and so are quite dangerous. Getting drunk is like that, and so I find the practice worth contemplation.

It's interesting when, during a night of drinking, you realize that a friend has gotten to the point of real intoxication.  The process for them is gradual, happening drink by drink. For me the realization is quite sudden. For a long time, they just seem happy and exuberant. Suddenly it is apparent that it's not just that. It may be so that I would be able to follow the progress of alcohol's effects if I kept my eye on a particular person without wavering, but it's a party and my focus is flighty at best...

Bar None

I found myself out at a bar to celebrate a friend's birthday, which is hardly a new experience for me. I must confess that I would have been content to stay in, as I am by nature a homebody, but I suppose that it's good when I'm forced out of that. Much personal growth can habit as a bar (though at least as much if not more personal regression seems to take place there). What was remarkable about this place was not the ordinary activity of drinking. It was a somewhat different sort of tavern. I heard wild stories about it from the very friends with whom I went there- stories about the crazy things they witnessed being played on the place's TVs. I was interested in seeing it all for myself.

The provocative programming I had been told of was not being played on the TVs, but something nearly as uncommon in an ordinary bar was. It looked something like an Indian or Pakistani film that had something to do with doctors and a hospital, and it looked like a comedy. I'm not able to get any more specific on the country of origin since no sound could be detected. It will remain a mystery. A Mexican film followed, and had to do with luchadors fighting monsters. It looked like fun, and I found my mind boggled by progressively more crazy developments each time I looked.

Drink Of Choice

I'm not a heavy drinker, as I have noted in the past. I have my preferences, however. My first love, so to speak, was beer. On the night of my twenty-first birthday, I stopped at a grocery store on the way home from class, and bought a case of Miller High Life. For a long period after that, I would drink one beer a day, buying a new case of twelve each time the previous was exhausted. I would usually get whatever nice, ordinarily too-expensive microbrew was currently on sale. In that way, I developed my initial knowledge of beer.

Eventually, I got interested in stronger spirits. I had consumed wine on a number of occasions in youth during church services, and never really got anything out of the taste. The memory of communion is still the most powerful sensation I get from it. A bit later in college, I started trying different hard liquors. Vodka wasn't for me. It tasted like rubbing alcohol or lighter fluid. Rum was better. I enjoyed a Haitian variety I had. I liked Tennessee sipping whiskey. My favorite is George Dickel, which I came to after reading an interview in which Merle Haggard praised it without reservation. Irish whiskey was also good. I recall enjoying some Jameson's while singing along to Johnny Cash's "Sam Hall" one night in Chicago.

Thinking About Drinking

A recent birthday celebration for a friend had me ruminating afresh on the subject of my drinking policy. I enjoy drinking, but it's a long way from being essential in any facet of my social life. I do not make a point of stocking any at home, and do not decide on committing to social outings on the basis of alcohol provision. It's a nice little plus when it's there, but only a bit more so than any ordinary drink.

Any particular non-alcoholic drink could rise above an alcoholic counterpart in my estimation. A cold, frosty cream soda would be so remarkable and welcome that it would provoke in me a much more favorable response than some non-descript alcohol. Of course, less commonly provided liquors such as bourbon, ouzo or absinthe would outshine beer, wine and Irish, Scotch or Tennesee whiskey by a long shot.