Liquor Lecture
The Parting Shot
Dr. Strangeglass or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bottle
by Lex Marburger
illustration by Eric Johnson
The following manuscript was found along with a half-eaten box of Indian take-out and a strange pool of viscous, grey-green fluid and a few other unsavory items in the gutter outside the Lollipop offices. Once cleaned off, it revealed the piteous and sorrowing tale below. Please, for your own sake, and the sake of those you love, read with caution. You certainly don’t want to end up like this guy.
How could it have come to this? Mad, they called me. Mad! And slovenly. And a scurvy-hearted knee-biter. And poopy drawers! I may be many things, but mad I am not! (Umm – not that whole poopy drawers business, either) To think, only half a decade ago, I was lauded as a singular purveyor of dram, the demon drink, the uh, “Beelzebub’s bath water” uh… well, to be short, Mr. Booze. I was asked to put pen to paper (then transcribe onto disk, email, mail a hard copy, and the fax) and describe the potent formulas that passed my lips, ran down my throat and into my belly where it would burn. And, sometimes, cross my lips again the other way (and make me write long, run-on sentences).
So I did. For years, I tortured my brain and body exploring the unplumbed reaches (and unreached plums) of drink. Vodka, rum, bourbon, rye, gin, chartreuse, absinthe… I left no glass unturned, stumbling through the brewery my life had become. I rallied the huddled, unconscious masses to sing a song of inebriation and Dionysian revelry, or at least a powerful hangover. For the sake of 1000-1200 words a month, I tried my best to burn a hole in my stomach and mind.
Time passed.
And I awoke to find myself at a limit, a point of choice. I had experimented with as many fermented chemicals as I cared to ingest. I had found my likes and my dislikes, that which made me angry, that which made me sad, that which made me projectile vomit. I had concocted combinations, from the simple yet elegant martini to the thick, syrupy land of Midori and blue curaco. I had even purposely subjected myself to agonizing, soul-tearing hangovers looking for cures (and I am still puzzled and slightly nauseated by one “turkey dinner and Ron Jeremy” suggestion). The choice loomed ahead of me. Should I stay, content in my knowledge, or continue what seems an endless exploration of liquor, ultimately pointless due to the subjectivity of individual preference?
No surprise, I kept drinking. But it had changed. No longer the dynamic, exciting world of intoxication and pain, things began growing static. I found it was more pleasant to have a few glasses of something you like, rather than continually forging ahead.
For the record, things I like:
Beer – Tremont Ale, Harpoon ESB, Geary’s Perfect Porter
Rye – Old Overholt (but Wild Turkey will do in a pinch)
Bourbon – Gentleman Jack, period.
Gin – Bombay Sapphire, 2:1 ratio with Martini and Rossi Dry Vermouth with a twist
Port – Cockburn’s 20 Year Tawny
Vodka, Tequila, Rum, Scotch – Anything $18 a fifth and over.
In short, I was getting old. I had done enough. It was time to pass the torch. There would be a moment, a symbolic gesture that would signify time for my abdication. I just never realized how much it would hurt.
I was leaving a friendly establishment, ready to weave my way home, when a cute lesbian Goth-punk chick approached me, obviously underage. She looked up, Mansoned eyes, white pancake make-up and all and said, “Hello, sir. You look like a respectable gentleman.” Right away, I knew something was up. Add to the list of things I am not: Mad, poopy pants, or respectable. And I instinctively realized what she wanted. “If I gave you money could you buy my friends and me some cider?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Wait. Are you a cop?”
Like a cheesy movie, her words echoed in my head. I reeled. I look like a cop? I numbly shook my head, took her money, and went into the store. A cop. A cop. She must have been ten years younger than me. Where had the time gone? The alcoholic swirl had suckered me into believing time hadn’t passed. It seemed like only yesterday; I was asking someone, just like me, to buy a silly brand of alcohol.
Here it was, the next generation. I brought the cider out to her, and before I gave it to her, I extracted a promise; one I had made when I was a wee lad, that when she gets old enough, she would have to buy for whoever asked, that she would understand the plight of the underaged, even when she was no longer “illegal.” And in doing so, I felt the mantle slip from me. There was a younger, more vibrant crowd out there ready to take on the booze world. Myself, I went back to the bar. “One more time,” I thought.
“One more time, for the old days…”