An Essay on Liquor Puritanism and Predestination

Or, "Come On! This Is Totally Unfair!"

Today is the day after St. Patrick's Day, and I feel hung-over as hell.

I'm sure you are shocked.

However, the honest truth is: I didn't have a drink last night. Not even one. No consultation with Dr. Scotch. No check-up from Nurse Bourbon. No snake oil purchased from my chiropractor, "Dr." Cheapvodka. Not even a back-alley abortion from a twelve pack of Corona that dropped out of Pre-Med.

I haven't gotten drunk on St. Patrick's day in a long time. I'm guessing 7-8 years. I don't like crowded bars to begin with, and I certainly don't like going out to capacity-filled bars loaded with part-time drinkers priming themselves to puke green-food-colored Miller Lite on my shoes.

St. Patrick's day is to the average social drinker what Easter Mass is to the lapsed Catholic. It's that one day a year to get dressed up in your finest faded Levi's 560s, green polo, and team-inappropriate-green MLB cap, snap on your snazziest puka-shell choker, and meander and sway obnoxiously in public at 3 in the afternoon, ready to pick a fight with no one in particular about nothing at all.

All that is well and good, if you're one of those idolators who think that one perfunctory and overwrought visit to church a year can save your soul,¹ or one of those drinkers that are into showiness and ceremony over the message.

But give me that Old Crow Religion. It's good enough for me.

Drinking shouldn't be all about who's wearing what beads, how to download which Dave Matthews song on the internet jukebox, or where to find the Morning After Pill after "What the Hell Was I Thinking." That obscures the message. The Word. ² The Price.³

Drinking should be a personal experience, between you and, ultimately, your Porcelain God. Those of us who have boiled booze down to it's purest message don't need the cheap vulgarity of sports bars and faux-Irish pubs to drink. Drinking belongs in simple, dimly lit rooms, with dark, simple wood and a bartender that can be reached in under 30 minutes. Sure, hot wings are a nice option, but a simple bowl of stale peanuts is just as holy.

So, much as the Puritans denouced Christmas as a pagan holiday with no relevance to their Lord, I denounce our current conception of St. Patrick's day as a false idol. Let us have a St. Patrick's day of the soul, one not bound by the calendar or Notre Dame shirts. Let every man, woman, and poorly looked-after child drink their fill in his or her own measure, and not bow to a tradition as meaningless as watching televised golf.

THAT, my dear reader, is why I do not drink on St. Patrick's Day.

And yet I woke up with a hangover. One that hasn't gone away. I have the headache, shakiness, and vague sense of nausea of a bog-standard whisky-induced hangover. You know, the thing baseball players used to call "flu-like symptoms." But this ain't no flu.

All of this proves Calvin was right. I am predestined to suffer for my sins, whether I commit them or not. For booze is a harsh mistress, and demands much from her worsphippers. But who am I to question? Dr. Scotch moves in mysterious ways.

Peace be with you.

---

1. Or that you even HAVE a soul...but that's for another blog at another time written by another person than me.
2. Thunderbird
3. Forty twice.

Drinking With Wolter

Today on Drinking With Wolter, we will be reviewing the Cheap-assed Margarita. As with all of Wolter's Potent Potables, this will be made with inexpensive liquors from around the house.

First, we need a reviewer. Some schlub who can tell us exactly what he likes or dislikes about a Cheap-ass drink. But who fits that bill?

Ah, yes. You'll do nicely, Wolter.

Now what can we use to make this drink?

Hmm...yes.

A 2/3 full bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. The official Only Tequila Sold Downstairs From Wolter's Apartment.

And a supporting cast? No triple sec, huh. Time to improvise.

GrandMa should be an adequate replacement for...EMPTY!?!?!?!

Okay, let's just cheap this all the way...Peach Schnapps it is. Now, we set up the blender. This particular model is made by Oster. But any brand will work.

Okay, Wolter. Gently open the frozen mix (Store Brand Strawberry Daiquiri, for those playing along at home). Gently...Gently...

GOD. DAMN. IT.

Okay. Small cleanup break. Let us add the tequila, using the time-honored "rinse out the mix container with booze" method.

Now, add the schnapps.

Hey! Save some for the blender, Wolter!

Now to add some ice. Let's check the depressingly empty freezer.

There it is! Right next to the bag of frozen "Tilapa."

Just top that puppy off. Very nice. And take a break to wipe the camera off, Sticky Fingers!

Let's rock. Here's an exciting Adam West angle of the blender being powered up:

And hopefully deliciousness will ensue...

Now didn't I have Margarita Glasses? Hmm...maybe not.

What to do? What to do?

Well, Dr. Scotch isn't in his office...

Excellent:

Now, let's see about the actual taste of this concoction.

Not really tasting the peach.

Swish it around, Wolter, paying careful attention to the nose.

Still nothing, huh? What do you taste?

Strawberries with a hint of tequila? And, are you legally blind, now?

I take that as a no.

I hereby declare this tasting a rousing success!

And, for the record, I am currently cooking the "Tilapa."

In Which Wolter Urinates On a Highway and Does a Little Naked Plumbing

So, how was your weekend?

Me?

Well, I'm batting a thousand so far, thanks for asking.

Sure, I could be all Sabermetric and admit that it's a pretty small sample size. Two visits are certainly not an indicator of my entire potential. But right now I am 2 for 2 in getting tanked in the state of Wisconsin.¹

It's actually surprising how little I've seen of WI. I live in Chicago, no more than an hour away. But, hell...it's an achievement to get me north of Lawrence these days, and I'm right by the 4400 block.² In all honesty, it's an achievement for me to walk my damn dog some days. Especially if it's raining. Or below 50 degrees out. Or above 60.

And the drunken sample size is skewed even further when you realize that one of the two trips to America's Dairyland was for Germanfest³--an occasion where I managed through sheer willpower to be, quite possibly, the drunkest member of my family in attendance (no mean feat when the twin specters of copious beer and the societal acceptance of lederhosen are combined). The very notion of Germanfest may seem a tad...unsettling for some, given the poor track record the Teutonic folk have about going, well, a little "overboard" celebrating their culture. Thankfully, German Americans are far less likely to join a Bund these days, and Germanfest is--like any other gathering of tubby caucasians in America--largely an excuse to drink keg beer and Jäger bombs. Oh, and there's a far greater likelihood of spätzle. And oompah music.

Adding to the statistical anomaly, my second visit was for Ali and my friend Lisa's surprise birthday party. I think it would be incredibly rude if I ever failed to get embarassingly schloshed⁴ at a friend's celebration. It'd be like Radiohead refusing to play "Creep" live...oh, wait...

Anywhoo, believe it or not, I didn't actually make altogether that much of an ass of myself that night (as I acquiesced to being cut off after an indeterminate number of drinks⁵). I mean, at one point I insulted the Brewers a little bit (but I wisely steered clear of Farve) - but it was done in a good natured way. In fact, by the end of the night, Lisa's brother and I (as well as Dr. Scotch's assistants, Nurse Bourbon and Intern Lager) were contemplating the Cubs and Brewers melding their team into one super-team⁶ that would whip hell on the rest of the NL. Booze heals.

A couple of waters later, and Ali and I were ready to drive home (Ali didn't have very much at all, and was clearly stone-cold sober before we even hit the Taco Bell⁷).

Well, one spilled Mountain Dew later,⁸ we were flying down the highway towards The City Vienna Beef Built. I kinda had to pee a little, but I was okay. I could hold it. We were making good time. Really good. I mean, it was nearly 2am. Traffic was nonex--

GOD...DAMMIT!

Okay. Suddenly it's bumper-to-bumper for as far up as I can see. And it's not creeping forward. It's stopped. Moments later, we saw and heard the sirens.

Creeping through northern Illinois' newest parking lot was a huge fire truck, an ambulance, police cars, and a tow truck. Oy.

Did I mention I had to pee a little?

It was becoming, "I have to piss. A lot." Technically, it was becoming "I have to motherfucking piss. A lot." But this is a family blog, and I didn't want to offend anyone with my italicized stress.

I turned to Ali and said, "Man, it's a good thing I've sobered up, or I'd probably just stroll out onto the highway and whizz all over the median." We chuckled.

Time passed, slowly. Inexorably.

The median was calling me. I tried not to answer. By this point I was at least 97% sober. Not a good percentage for public urination. Especially with a built in audience of other cars.

I did what I always do in these situations. I complained. Ali said, "I think you should just do it. That way I don't have to hear you complain about this any more." Given that oh-so-supportive declaration, I decided to go ahead and do it.

I hopped out of the car and went to hop the concrete barrier. Hey, that's not a median. It's a closed off lane. I crossed the barrier, and went to the other side, where I decided to urinate across the second concrete barrier (to the lane with sporadic traffic going the other way. Screw 'em. They weren't stuck). This barrier was about 3 inches below my crotch, by the way, so I had to aim out a bit. But the alternative was stand out in the open with my junk flapping in the breeze, and as one can tell from this blog, I am an intensely private person.

So I start to go.

And go.

And go.

And a spate of cars came around the bend in that lane.

I moved instinctively to hide myself from view, which caused a bit of blowback. Grr. One they were gone, I resumed my position and kept going. This was getting comical. Well, not to me. As I was sitting there, wondering when I might, oh I don't know, RUN OUT OF LIQUID WASTE, I heard a roaring noise to my left.

It was a car zooming by me from behind.

The lane wasn't closed.

Which meant I was basically standing in the middle of a highway lane in pitch darkness, pissing on another highway lane in pitch darkness.

Eventually, the laws of physics asserted themselves, and I ran out of ammo. But not before three more cars, probably filled with nuns, or orphans, or every girl I had a crush on in high school, whipped behind me.

I should mention each passing car was another occasion for blowback.

I finally skulked back the car, fully expecting a round of applause from the inordinate amount of immobile cars. Thankfully, that was not to be. We eventually started moving, got past the wreck, ⁹ and made it home. I slept like a stone for many, many hours.

Oh, I also did some naked plumbing this weekend.

---

1. I know. As of right now, I'm no better than when Tuffy Rhodes hit those three dingers on opening day for the Cubs, only to suck himself right out of American baseball. Although, old Tuffy still holds two homerun records: Most homeruns by a foreign player in Japan, and most homeruns by a guy named Tuffy anywhere.
2. Chicago geographical reference placed by the Gideons.
3. "Anschluss Free Since 1946!"
4. Not to be confused with "Anschlussed."
5. More than 5, but less than 10.
6. Not really sure who would play first on the team, in hindsight. Derrekles is my personal choice, but where do we put Prince Spaghetti Night (sorry...Fielder)? I'd probably trade him for like 2-3 pitchers, as both teams seem to have a rotation composed largely of spun sugar. Oh, and we both agreed that the Cubs essentially ending Turnbow's career was a favor to our Sausage Racing Friends to the North. Like putting down a particularly untalented rabid dog.
7. Did I mention we hit the Taco Bell? Not literally. But I needed sub-par pseudo-Mexican food to complete my transformation into Guy Who Is Actually Sober, Not Just Thinking He's Sober. Also, I needed a Mountain Dew. I always order a Mountain Dew at Taco Bell. This is because I hate myself.
8. That did wonders towards putting me firmly in the Guy Who is Actually Sober category.
9. On a down note, that looked like a really horrible accident. Hopefully no one was sitting in the passenger seat, as there really wasn't one left.¹⁰
10. Here is a painting of Yoda with Bob Marley to help you get past that last, downer footnote:

How My Dog Has Already Ruined My Three Day Weekend

Howdy, folks looking for pictures of the lead singer of Dead or Alive. I've decided to interrupt my long, slow descent into madness to spend 5 minutes talking about my night:

I'm taking tomorrow off from work to spend a delightful day with the official Slog Girlfriend,¹ Alexandra J. Bear, Esq. Which makes this my Friday, sort of. But I've got less exciting plans than usual today, mostly consisting of getting laundry done, and cleaning the floor of our "apartment."² I'm doing this solo tonight, because Ali has a special dinner planned with her family, deferred all the way from last Valentines. Somewhere out there, she is dressed to the nines, beautiful, and having fun. I am so glad for her that she was not here.

The floor needs cleaning largely because there are seven mammals living here.³ Two (our rats, Dante and Wilson) are safely housed in an aquarium. Two (our Rabbit, Blue and Chinchilla, McGreevey) are in hutches that are roughly the size of my old Lincoln Square "apartment."⁴ These hutches have cage gates, enabling both Rabbit and Chinchilla to hurl bedding, hay, food pellets, and feces upwards of 4 feet away from their homes. ⁵ Two are humans; our feces is usually confined to the proper receptacle.

The final mammal is our Class Five Free Floating Vapor,⁶ Sparky. The Spark is...well, he's my dog. I love him. He is not 100% house-trained. But he tries. Lord how he tries.

Anywhoo, after a particularly frustrating day and a particularly frustrating commute, I finally get home. I'm delighted to see fresh urine and feces⁷ on the puppy pad.⁸ Good dog, Sparky! Here's a treat! I throw out the pad.

So, I sit down to catch my breath for a second. After about 4-5 minutes of checking email, I take a trip to the restroom. Just as I get out, my brother calls me to ask a question about which season of Arrested Development he watched when he visited me a while back. We chat for 2-3 minutes, while I try to remember the answer (I think it's one, but I'm not sure). I'm a pacer, so I've trotted all over the house. In mid-conversation, I start to smell something. Is that...no, can't be...he just went on the pad. I must smell the garbage. Better take the bag...

Oh holy crap. Gotta go, Jarrod.

The dog, all seven-point-two pounds of him, has crapped...

EVERYWHERE

I mean...seriously, in five distinct places.

This was not here before my bathroom trip. But it is now.

And that isn't even counting where I STEPPED IN IT AND TRACKED IT ALL OVER THE ROOM.

My lazy Thursday night was transformed to a Lovecraftian Scene of Canine Fecal Horror.⁹ And, of course, Sparky picks now to try to run around the house. AUUUUGH!

I chase him back to the bed, whereupon he yelps like I'm beating him, even though I'm standing 10 feet away. That little fucker is trying to make the neighbors think I'm abusing him. Jokes on him, though. I live next to transplanted trailer trash. Probably couldn't hear us over the sound of beating his trashy, boozed up wife.

So, I spend roughly 25 minutes on my hands and knees scrubbing Dog Waste out of out Increasingly Worthless Carpet. I was hoping to be done with laundry by now, but it's still in the dryer. The Spark? Asleep. We made up. He licked my face with his oyster breath and I swore that I would still feed him tomorrow.

Anyway, I should wrap up this blog. I just needed to vent. I have about 15 minutes left on the laundry, and that's probably just enough time to see if Dr. Scotch can stop by and do some lab work.

Excelsior!

'Nuff Said.

---

1. Okay, that sounds horrifying. But Slog Co-Habitator is worse, and Mrs. Slog is a little premature.
2. I am required by law to put quotes around this, as "broom closet" would be more accurate.
3. That I know of.
4. I am required by law to put quotes around this, as "Vietnamese POW Tiger Cage" would be more accurate.
5. Or, halfway across the "apartment."
6. A real nasty one, too.
7. Did I REALLY just say "delighted to see fresh urine and feces?" Let me check. Oh God. I did. Pray for me.
8. Puppy is a misnomer. The Spark is actually almost four. He is middle aged. And he still pisses on the floor. I'm 31, and it's probably been 2-3 years since I pissed on my carpet.
9. Technically, this is probably closer to Kafkaesque, but I have the label, and I'm gonna use it.
   

Home VCR Repair - A Journey in Pictures

The setup: On Thursday night, Ali and I watched a really boring movie made in England that some people in France love, which is about as multicultural as this McRib lover ever gets. It was a requirement for one of her classes at her acting conservatory. It seems to be fairly popular, but I fell asleep twice during it. Let's just say it was no Ghostbusters and leave it at that.

Anywhoo, we actually had to dust off the VCR for this, as Ali had to borrow a copy from someone else who borrowed it from the Public Library. And on Friday morning, when Ali attempted to eject the tape, the VCR wouldn't even power up long enough to do so. I secretly suspect it was because the movie was so boring it put the machine into a coma, but I'm no expert.

Well, Ali was all disturbed, because she is both:

1. A decent person who hates to let a friend down by not returning something she borrowed,
2. A cheap person that doesn't want to give a red cent to no damn liberry,

...I actually had something like this happen about twelve years ago, and successfully disassembled the machine to remove the tape, so I turned all Alpha Male and said "Don't worry your pretty little head, honey. I'll fix it after work." Okay, I didn't literally say that, but I'm sure I wasn't much less condescending.

I got about as far as removing the top and faceplate before realizing this was going to be a longer journey than I remembered. So I decided to record it for posterity, so Ali could bask in my victory when she got home from work.

This is the project: remove Secrets & Lies from its Outdated Media Playing Prison.

This is The Only Tool I'll Need (note stoic determination):

To work!

Current collection of screws removed:

And how much has changed? Not enough to take a new picture, that's for damn sure:

Oh! Here! A screw I missed! That should speed things along.

Don't fuck with me, screws. This fucker's magnetized.

Net change after that dramatic removal:

WHAT THE HELL, MAN?!?!?!

Okay...Okay...Calm down, Wolter. You just need to come at this from another angle. Maybe you need more than a screwdriver after all. You need an all-purpose Solution To Life's Problems...but what could that be...?

Hmmm.

Oh yeah!

How silly of me not to consult Dr. Scotch.

What's that, Dr. Scotch? You want me to take that screw out? Ok.

Well that accomplished...nothing.

I can't stay mad at you, Scotch. Let's check on our progress.

Screws removed?

Okay...let me try a few more.

Good. Something came off. That's satisfying. Just wish I knew what it was for. Oh well. Onwards and upwards...

Oh crap, the tape is still wound around the head. Fantastic.

This requires some deep thought.

And a consultation...

Okay, I just need to ease that little piece slightly over to return the tape to the hou--

GODDAMMIT!

It took surprisingly little pressure to snap this little guy off.

Time to regroup. What the hell do I do now? I kind of suspect that piece is necessary for the continued operation of this particular device. I suppose I should meditate on my options.

Oh, that's right!

BRUTE FORCE!

Won't be needing this!

Or this!

Thanks for the assist, Dr. Scotch. This is a breakthrough moment, and should be savored.

Okay...easy...easy...

And...

Gloria! In Excelsis Barbaria!

Hosanna in Excelsis!

Final score: Wolter 1, VCR 0

Unfortunately, it was a Pyrrhic victory, as Dr. Scotch was a casualty of war. But he will be remembered for his bravery, his sagacity, and his smooth finish.

The final outcome:

If anyone needs me to repair any other electronic devices, I am available. As is my new assistant, Nurse Bourbon.