Liquor Lecture
by Lex Marburger
illustration by Eric Johnson
What I Drank On My Summer Vacation
It has come to the attention of Lollipop that many of our readers enjoy imbibing an alcoholic liquid every now and again (and again…). In the public interest, we offer a Lollipop guide to Liquor. Please note: We are trained professionals and the “experiments” that follow were not attempted by “casual” or “social” drinkers. Lollipop assumes no responsibility for the actions of any drunk person, including its own staff. And ask Mom first, okay?
Unless you were living under a rock, you may have noticed that Lollipop took a break in July (what, you didn’t get anxious sweaty palms when you didn’t see a new copy on the shelves? Philistine). Seizing the opportunity, I left the lackeys to sweat in the office, “cleaning up,” while I high-tailed it south to sweat in a van with six people for three weeks. Yes, I went On Tour (if I hear that crap about music critics being failed musicians, I’m gonna rip somebody’s lungs out. Preferably someone a lot smaller than me). But that’s not the point of the story. This story is about a wonderful place I ended up in Georgia. I can’t tell you where, it’s a secret. This place was a Paradise located smack dab in the middle of a sub-tropical forest wonderland, where there was almost no electricity, no AC, sawdust toilets (human compost – what a joy), fire ants, and mosquitoes as big as your face. That should dissuade most of you. We slept in treehouses and geodesic domes, and swam in the natural swimming pool (we would have swam in the pond, but there were too many water moccasins). Wild chickens and armadillos wandered through every now and again. There was drumming at night, lounging in daylight, and clothing was optional… Hey, pig. I know what you’re thinking.
Well, to be honest, that’s mostly right.
There was one problem, however, that seemed almost insurmountable. It turns out that Georgia is filled with cracker-rabble sister-lovers who don’t know what good beer is. When you’re faced with a choice of Bud, Miller, or Milwaukee’s Best (“The Beast”), what do you do? Why, go for the cheapest, of course! But could I face the challenge of being in an Earthly Paradise while holding a can of swill? Determined, I resolved to make the most of the situation.
Days passed, which seemed like years of naked frolicking in the sun. The hot tub, filled with water from a hot spring 750 feet below ground, was a source of joy for many, while wandering though the blueberry fields proved a source of inspiration for others (and what inspiration! Blueberry paste spread over body parts while dancing crazily. Why did I leave?). But through all of this, that nagging problem stayed in my head. What to do about this conundrum of cheap beer in a Garden of Delights?
Then one day, while in the pool, I had a revelation. There I was, swimming, laughing, and letting it all hang out, when I grabbed my beer, took a deep pull, and sighed in satisfaction. I suddenly realized: I’m drinking warm Milwaukee’s Best, one of the worst beers on the planet, and I’m enjoying it! Disturbed enough to miss my turn on the rope swing, I sat and pondered. “Could it be,” I wondered, “that classy beer is simply a defense mechanism against a cruel concrete society that crushes the collective spirit of modern folk, becoming a panacea to the horrors of this end-of-the-millennia culture, and once our bio-survival needs are placated and soothed,any beer tastes good?” I needed a way to test this theory. The answer came a few days later when an adventurous traveller brought with her a six pack of Pete’s Wicked Ale. The moment had arrived. Would the taste of warm Beast equal that of Pete’s? Of course not. The Pete’s was in all ways superior. What did you think, that I’d solved the problems of humanity? Get real.
Further adventures in and around water: I noticed that fresh mint was growing at the edge of the pool and in a flash, I knew what drink I had to make. Mint Juleps, the southern sipper’s slow stonkered slide out of sobriety. Gathering two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, I stuffed them full of freshly picked and bruised mint leaves in the morning, and left the bottles out in the sun all day. At dusk, I tucked them into the freezer (yes, they did have a freezer) and cast about for some powdered sugar. None. Drat! Foiled. Just then, a genius named Andy (names have not been changed, ’cause no one was innocent there) showed me a wonderful trick: Just put sugar in a dry blender and hit pureé. Shazam! Powdered sugar. A few ice cubes later, the concoction was complete. I doled out the divine mixture to my compatriots, and we sat on the deck, getting righteously blotto while lazily duking it out with the mosquitoes and enjoying the remnants of the day. Then we pulled out the drums, played for a few hours, and ended up back in the pool.
So, while the rest of the Lollipop crew was pissing and moaning here in Boston, I was blissing myself out in this borderline cult, playfully delving into the mysteries of life, the universe, and the disturbing lack of good beer in the southern states. To my loyal co-workers and friends, I say…
“Nyah, nyah, nyah!”
Why not send in your drinking stories? If you can remember them, that is. If they’re over the top enough, we’ll use them in future issues of Lollipop . I understand that most of the best can’t be remembered, but when you wake up, sore in disturbing places, do your best to recall the night’s events and send them in. Until next time, keep those bottle ends pointing at the sky!
