Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Scanning the bottles lined up... the bar, all fetchingly and cleverly disguised to cover up the poison in them, I noticed that with many of them - Jameson's, Kahlua, Johnny Walker Red, 7 Star Metaxa Brandy, Sambuca, JD, even that Midori crap, all figure in a world of funny, sad, sordid and/or squalid stories in my life.

Years of imbibitionary indiscretions have taken a toll but in the wake left an
anthology of bar-life tales I've been drawing on for 35 years. I have laid claim to having drunk a lake of Jameson's in my life but in truth it was probably no more than a large bathtub full, fifteen or so gallons maybe 20...stereotypical Irish behavior...

Good Christ! What a waste. Each gallon represents a number of brain cells gone forever - by the friggin' thousands! - they are not fingernails and don't grow back you know, each gallon of this disgusting rotgut whiskey posing as class has been every bit as much a nail in my coffin as any cigarette I ever smoked. (...but o in those days it was soooo good! And necessary...)

This doesn't even figure the financial cost which actually didn't amount to much out of MY pocket as I was quite adroit at sleazing a drink or two out of yours, having mastered the derelict lingo "...o and perhaps you might also buy me a beer chaser for this...ah yes, yes, thank you!"

Wet brain. Cerebellum floating in a sea of distillates.

Sitting here in limbo is a lot like being in front of a mirror with no one around to try and impress. Alone with my thoughts I ruminate the foolishness of being a drunk for so many years and even though I am about to wash down my soup and sandwich here at lunch with a Heineken I am no longer the wastrel I once was.

Alcoholically speaking anyway. These bottles arrayed so invitingly before me, could they talk, a horrid tale would tell.

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