I found, via the Cinetrix, this Atlantic article about giant cocktails, which is well worth the read. The accompanying video features a drink described as “blue as a David Hockney swimming pool,” and that’s the sort of prose that makes me want to throw in the (bar) towel because I have never, EVER, come up with anything close to that good. And writing about drinking is my specialty! Or perhaps it’s not so much the writing as the doing that’s my specialty. Anyhow. Gimme my Fucking Book Deal already.
I challenge anyone to sit on “chat” with eBay’s customer support for 75 minutes and not drain a bottle of wine. Having a rather annoying technical log-in issue, not very interesting, and not very RESOLVED, either. The worst part is that I don’t feel a thing. Buzzkill.
After all was said and done, I typed, “this is actually really embarrassing that I can’t figure out what’s wrong because I work in IT,” and “Darwin P,” on the other end, typed, “It’s okay.”
So I’ve drunk all the wine and I polished off the bourbon days ago and now I am drinking the Genepi, which is a rather cloying and viscous remainder from N’s trip to the French Alps. (To be cured of homosexuality. It didn’t work.) There’s almost nothing left. It’s either that, the jalapeno tequila, or the 8-year-old grappa with the cork broken off in the bottle. WHAT I write about drinking, that’s what I do.
Stroke me.
