Liquor Lecture

by Lex Marburger
illustration by Eric Johnson

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?

We’ve covered what to drink, how to drink it, what to do when you’ve drunk too much. But what to wear? If you think this is a silly question, think about the Queen of England drinking a Bud, or a Flipped-White-Cap, denim-decked, fratboy mofo with a glass of cognac. Incongruous and silly. So, unless you’re going to purposefully go for juxtaposition and confusion (a noble goal in itself, but one that’s usually met with incomprehension), heed my words of fashion and alcohol.

Now, as we all should know, and if we don’t it’s because I just made this up, the price of your alcohol usually reflects the price of your clothes. If you fancy a martini with Tanqueray Sapphire, the shirts are collared, not wrinkled (at the beginning of the night, anyway), and a tie would not be out of order. (Before I go any further, I should stress that I admit I am going to refer to male fashions primarily, simply because I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground about female fashion. If you have a problem with that, write in and tell me about it.) Anyway, Whiskey Sours usually indicate their style from the kind of Whiskey. Jack could mean anything, while anyone who mixes Maker’s Mark with anything, never mind Sour Mix, not only dresses garishly and with no sense of personal taste or style, but should also be shot on sight, no questions asked. When it comes to beer, there should be no doubt that microbrew drinkers either prefer taste over getting drunk, or are trying to separate themselves from the crowd of people who swill beer the color of piss. That crowd can be typified as a combination of college students (and their fashion is always questionable), sheep who take marketing ploys as gospel (y’know, the kind that follow feverishly, and even bet on, the “Bud Bowl” every year), and wimps.

While I’m offending everyone I can think of, what about the “fruity drinks”? The ones with names like “Sunset Kiss” or “Grape Nectar Crush”? One word: Wimps. Deniers of the fact that they’re drinking alcohol. I bet they only play at a fashion sense of style, dabbling here and there, not making any solid conviction about anything, getting their fashion ideas from the spreads in Spin. And I can’t forget the sorry individuals who drink… (shudder) …wine coolers. Laura Ashley floral prints, secretary pool, Disney movies, stuffed animals on their four-poster twin-sized matching patchwork quilt beds, “hee hee, last night I drank as many as two, and I was – a little tipsy!” Oh god, please spare me these fools. While you’re at it, spare me the angry feminists who would tar and feather me for that last categorization.

You can also make some generalizations going the other way. For example, a Goth is usually a red wine drinker, or some type of impossibly high priced liqueur, Countreau, Gran Marnier, something like that. A metalhead? Anything in a plastic bottle, or sold in gallon quantities. If they think they can get more drunk for their dollar, they’ll pick it up. “Dude! For the same price as that vodka, we can huff two bottles of grape schnapps!” You get the idea. A punk will usually go for the cheap stuff, if for no other reason than they either are or want to pretend to be poor. Classical? White wine. ‘Nuff said. Jazz? That depends on what kind of jazz you listen to, be it avant garde (usually the hard stuff) or neo-traditional (wussies, and all that they drink). I don’t think I have to tell you what Garth Brooks fans drink, and I don’t want to.

And the day after? There are those who don silk bathrobes and suede slippers, a sure sign that they spend top dollar on their booze, possibly going so far as to pop open a bottle of Korbel to make a mimosa or two, while the rest of us shuffle about in sweats and a T-shirt, looking for at least one crappy beer, or something, to dull the pain. And then there are the ones who simply roll limply on their bed, the victim of too many cheap drinks, impurities infesting their liver and kidneys like The Andromeda Strain Two: The Search for Curly’s Gold. There is no fashion for them. They will lie naked in bed for most of the day, bemoaning their existence. Finally, to all the people I haven’t insulted – er, spoken of yet: You don’t know how to drink, and your mother dresses you funny. There. That ought to do it.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend you? Then get off your ass, write Lollipop, and tell me to go get bent. Or whatever. Just do it. You’re starting to piss me off.