But sweetness follows.

Today, in a nutshell:

• Thump! The thickest hipster scene I've yet encountered. Imagine taking a time machine and setting it directly for 2014. I mean, it's got everything: handlebar mustaches, toques, artisanal kombucha (whatever that means), local microbrews and wine, suspenders, lattes done with artistic foam flourishes, plenty of journals and laptops, comfy faux-leather couches, a cast iron fireplace, and neo-rustic furniture including metal chairs and roughhewn wood communal tables. The baristas are encouraged to emulate the sartorial excellence of the Lumineers or Mumford and Sons (I KNOW, it pains me too*), and openly admit that they will judge you for drinking herbal tea...or at least so sez the wall art behind them. But a super cool place to go and pretend that you're in Oregon (if you're not actually in the Bend location). Also: a super awful place to go if you are allergic to any of the aforementioned accoutrements. (Mr. Man would go anaphylactic in 0.3 seconds.)
• Vinyl! Enjoying the turntable, so I made a few other purchases today. Continued my Beatles love with Help!, took a left turn into country with Gram Parson's Grievous Angel, and in the never-imagined-I'd-ever-do-this department, plunked down six greenbacks for a used original print of Tammy Wynette's greatest hits, dating back to 1969. Still sounds fine. All I can say is maybe it was inspiration from...well, refer back to my last post.
• Clothes! Just the typical getting the new to replace the old...but trying to buy the quality shit that'll last. Now that I'm at a size I'm happy with, I can justify getting stuff I won't grow out of in a year or two. So goes the vision. Oh, and speaking of size...
• Neck rolls! Weird to say this, but when I roll my head back in a chair, it's kinda comforting to feel the back of my neck bulk up and provide a bit of a cushion for my head. Just thought of that this afternoon...and again just now. Not to mention: on the right man, this can be, hands down, the sexiest body part ever. No joke.

*Of course, as soon as I mock the Lumineers for their threads, I have to look up their video for a quick reminder of exactly how they look. And oh SNAP but ya caught me. T-shirts and suspenders everywhere. And...uh...what is it that I'm wearing now? Oops. So I must admit that yes, I myself may have taken my sartorial cues from the Lumineers unintentionally. But can I defend suspenders real quick here? For a guy who does not care for regular hiking-up of pants - particularly since I already have a proportionally long torso and short legs - suspenders are awesome. Besides, they look classy and masculine. Unless you wear them with shorts, in which case go stand next to Brigitta like we rehearsed, Kurt. So I'm taking every opportunity to wear them nowadays...and at some point, hope to figure out some way to fit them into business wear.

So. Enough for now. I have a Moscow mule or three waiting for me at the local leather bar.

The Daisy Buchanan

Earlier this year, I got to enjoy that favorite of dieselpunks everywhere, The Great Gatsby. No, not the book. The Leonardo DiCaprio dazzlefest. Seriously, while I was watching it, I thought the movie had Moulin Rouge written all over it, and whaddaya know? Same director. That movie is one hella blingalicious partay, after the likes of which your eyes will be craving a whiff of coffee beans to neutralize the palate. The Great Gatsby (the movie) was reviled for being...what? artificial? Like the era it was trying to portray? It won an Oscar for costume design and yeeeah. Deserved. When Daisy Buchanan was suddenly crying over never having seen such beautiful shirts, I kinda got what she meant. I could spend a lifetime trying to find shit that looked that good. (And yeah, I know Daisy wasn't really crying over beautiful shirts. Duh.)

But that's not really what I'm here about. Ladies and gentlemen of the board, I've come up with a new creation, my drink of the summer of 2014, named after she who stole Jay Gatsby's heart. It's basically a dolled-up, sweeter and lighter gin and tonic. Gin squinches the back of the tongue, and for some people, it has far too astringent and bitter a taste to enjoy. Hence the accoutrements to ease otherwise skeptics into how delightful gin can be in the right setting. Besides, if you're gonna make a drink that's an homage to the '20s, there better damned well be gin in there.

So here ya go. The Daisy Buchanan. Drink this and feel like money.

1 1/2 shots gin
1/2 shot St. Germain
1/2 shot Lillet Blanc
tonic water

Add the shots to a highball glass or something similar. Add some ice. Top with tonic water. Stir and enjoy.

Okay. You know bad is bad when...

• This is the first night in over 10 years that I've had two mai tais in one night. (Peruse the New York Bartender's Guide for the liver-crushing recipe. Or just look here.) Somehow (and fifty pounds later), I can handle them. But just barely.
• I had to improvise with blue curacao with one of them. So the drink turned out to be the color of fungified cement. Yum.
• I tell Quinn that she is SO hopelessly a fashion don't while she's wearing a kerchief with her matchy-match two-piece bikini while she's poolside with her friends. The only members of the Fashion Club.
• Yep. It's a olive drab and kelly green PLAID. Even I wouldn't be caught dead wearing such clashing patterns in the local man's man gay bar, even under low lights, even with drunk guys who wouldn't know better. Did I say gay men? Yeah. Not all of them are fashion mavens, but some of them wear fabulous scarves with their impeccable leather coats.
• Oh, and yeah...Quinn is a fucking CARTOON.
• I'm spewing advice to said cartoon.
• This cartoon, despite catering to college-age kids, stopped being relevant around, oh, 1997.
• Not a mathematician, but let's do the math here. SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO? Oh God...
• God, I'm old.
• I'm trying to persuade myself that my predecessors of decades and decades past regressed into their younger years to...well, for one night, to numb themselves into forgetting an annoying day. Despite the lack of said cartoons.
• La la LA la la...

I should stop now. Before I embarrass myself beyond the hope of recovery.

It's apparently the year of 25 year anniversaries. Three days and twenty-five years ago began one of the most difficult days of my life. In just over a month and a half will commence the 25th anniversary of the most amazing day of my life.

Okay. I really should stop right now. Mark the time. And note the beverages consumed. Also note that it has been over ten years.

God, I'm pathetic right about now. Don't expect this post to last more than a week.

Okay. One more thing. GOD, right now I wish I knew who my birth parents were. Maybe one day.

No, I should never, ever write erotica or porn. But that won't stop me.

The DJ told me he was turned on to industrial by a Swiss guy who recommended Skinny Puppy, Ministry, NIN, and KMFDM. He turned to leave as he told me he was spinning in ten. We'd met years ago, and he was wild, big, with an unhinged look to his eyes. I told him to spin something hot, hard, loud, and above all, sinister. He slammed his thick lips onto mine and I reached around to grab his ass. A shower of needles went off everywhere. Goddamn.

Then I said, "Make my ears bleed. Make them feel like they've been violated."

So what is it?

Is it "in vino veritas," or is it that alcohol overly amplifies emotions? Because at this moment, I'm leaning toward the latter. And believe me, at this late hour on the first day of 2014, it ain't purty. Fights between me and Mr. Man never are. Then again, we don't really fight. A few bon mots, some insinuations, some passive-aggressive acquiescence, and some stomping off to another bar while the other stays behind. (I'll leave you to guess who stays behind, in a very passive-aggressive manner.) God, but relationships are agonizing.

Oh yeah. And happy 2014. Don't send me any pity. I'm over it.

"What's that I smell?" "Burning nun, darling. Cheers."

Random comments about last night:

• When a new gayby (young, either newly-out or new to the scene gay man) says he has not seen The Sound of Music after 21 years on this plane, what do you do? Of course. You devirginize him. With said movie. And lots of friends. And lots of drinks and nibbly things.
• Don't be too bummed if he decides he really won't go out of his way to see the movie again, despite allowing as how he liked it.
• The St. Germain gin and tonic is utterly delightful. I wish I had begun drinking it about six months ago. It makes the perfect summer drink. (Don't belabor it. One gin and tonic, a half shot of St. Germain.)
• Forgive me, for I have sinned. Of all the gawdawful, socially, politically, environmentally, and hygienically repugnant things I could have done last night, this takes the cake: ordering Papa John's.
• Superman: Man of Steel - (Spoilers, natch.) Not a bad movie. I appreciated the story behind why General Zod was so hell-bent on taking over Earth. Not that it particularly made me like him, but it certainly made me understand his impulses better; I could almost sympathize with him. (Compare it with Superman II, where Zod just plain wanted to rule the planet and subject its peons to cruel dictatorship because...well, you know...just because.) But GOD...how many buildings did those two lovers need to throw each other into? And in the end, all it took was a good old-fashioned neck-wrench to send Zod hurtling into the void? What a disappointment.
• Combine the gin and tonics, the pizza, and the hyperkinesis of MOS, and you have yourself one soon-to-be-sick puppy on your hands. Cold sweat, that sudden sense of impending doom if you don't do something NOW...you know the feeling. And so:
• Enter my favorite herb of all time: gentian. Insanely bitter - and insanely awesome. I keep a tincture of it on hand at all times. It has often made the difference between puking my guts out and feeling miserable for hours afterward and feeling clean, cool, and calm. Three squirts of this in a cup of water, sipped over a few minutes, and here was the progression. Five minutes after starting: something is happening. Ten minutes after that: I'm definitely on the mend. Not sweating, stomach is moving, and this noxious brick in my stomach feels like it's dissolving. Within a half hour: completely out of the woods. Not just that, but I feel like I could SOAR, I'm feeling so great. I normally don't have quite that dramatic a response to gentian, but I was in a world of hurt last night.
• Want an aural approximation of this progression? Listen. Start at about 7:30 (just before feeling sick), and go until the vocals kick in at about 13:40. Thank God for prime Floyd.

Gotta move on...

Blogging the morning after seems like such a great idea in the middle of a kick-ass night. But actually during the morning after? Won't say I'm hungover, but my mind's bleary enough that any excitement that could have been transmitted last night in crystalline detail is now stuck in a light fog of acetaldehyde, and...oh well. Just a few things that made last night awesome.

 

THIS. How could I have gone through over 37 1/2 years of my life without seeing this? I stood on the dance floor, staring at the screen, with the pleasure centers of my brain lighting up like the nuclear impacts map on WarGames. Random absurdity is practically my trade. Also, THE RAMONES. If this is your first time seeing this, then my work here is done.

Also, this. I have gone years and years without hearing this...to the point where I couldn't even remember who did this version. Gotta say, for a suburban kid in the '80s, Pseudo Echo was a pretty damned cool name...and Aussies to boot. Really shoulda checked them out more back in the day. And don't these kids look like they're having a blast?

So yeah, the music in the '80s room at the local big gay club was particularly awesome last night. Great to see good friends out, too...more than usual.

All this is to say...gosh, I'm losing some enthusiasm to get in these big workouts now. Squatting 230 is TOUGH, ya know? Much easier to blog and kvetch and procrastinate.

Darling, being gay is the best excuse you'll ever have not to be boring!

So says Eddy from Absolutely Fabulous: one of my favorite shows of all time. BUT.

(whining alert)

Man, I'm so not into being gay lately. At least my recent experience of it. Where do I start?

Shows like the deceased and not-at-all-mourned The A-List (both New York and Dallas versions) and the still-afflicting-us 1 girl 5 gays just annoy the everloving crap outta me. The A-List had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The producers, I assume, thought it would be such a great idea to put the bitchiest, supposedly A-list gays in close proximity to each other, force them to flirt shamelessly and do all they could to wreck relationships, friendships, and reputations. Including their own. I've seldom felt so good about being a non A-lister. But I also felt sick to my stomach watching this...is this the image we're putting out to society? Help us all. At least 1 girl 5 gays has the excuse of catering to teens and the twentysomething crowd. And if I were that age, I would be really gaga over the show. Still, it's kinda creepy, looking in on 5 gaybies (recycled at random from probably around 40 or so) and their resident hag (far too pretty for such a derogatory-sounding term). These guys pass judgment on each other, laugh with each other, share some deep secrets (and many, many more not-so-deep secrets), and talk about their sex lives outside of the show. Said sex lives include fellow cast members, so it feels incestuous. To be sure, they all look and act friendly enough, but really, what I can't abide is yet ANOTHER discussion of how people don't care enough about Madonna or Gaga, what actor you would do, what you were thinking when you were finishing your last hookup, and (I wish I were making this up) drawing what your parents look like naked. I think I'm just getting too old for this.

Also? Alcohol. It has its place, and right now, with a few exceptions, that place is not near me. Not because of any run-ins with the law, mind you. I just don't like the way I feel when I imbibe, and do whatever I can to make sure that any after-effects are mitigated as much as possible. It's become especially noticeable since I've begun working out, seeing results, and doing what I can to make sure I see more results.

Along the lines of alcohol comes the social scene. Okay, alcohol's good for that. I tend to come out of my shell once I get a few drinks down. Only problem is, I'm sometimes likely to spiral into sadness, or more likely, anger and resentment. And let me tell you, I am one evil, evil bitch when that happens. Friends often are surprised to find out that I have this mean streak in me, but it is true: I can be more bitter, scathing, and cruel - without any irony or dark humor to leaven it - than just about anyone I know. I don't get fiery. I become icy and numb. Don't cross me.

Oh yeah...back to the social scene. I joke to people nowadays that Mr. Man goes out and kicks up his pink sequined platforms with the fabulous crowd, while I stay at home, sip my chamomile tea and knit. Of course, this is relative to Mr. Man, who is far and away one of the most social people I've ever known. I tell people that I can be a lightbulb and light up a dark room, but I'm often next to the sun. And I HAAATE playing second fiddle to a guy who makes you feel as socially awkward as an autistic kid (though it is never intentional). (By the way, I just took an autism spectrum quotient quiz. My score: 30 out of 50. Above 32 indicates a likelihood of something along the autism spectrum. Apparently, I read people too well and am too sensitive to their expressions to qualify.)

The worst part? Let's combine all of the above and intensify it ten times. Travelling for gay parties that are all about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll - or in this case, sex, poppers, and techno - just drains me in all ways possible. If I need a week or two to recover from the lack of sleep and wild times, it just isn't worth it. Yes, you can make tons of friends at said parties, which is cool. But I've been to enough of 'em - Dallas, Chicago, and God help me, New Orleans - to last me for a few years. I have no desire to do a bear run or circuit party anytime in the near future. (Meanwhile, Mr. Man recently expressed a desire to go on a vacation somewhere. All he listed were said gatherings.)

Can we keep going? Please? TECHNO MUST DIE. I'm sick of it.

Incidentally, I realized today that on the occasion of Denver's Pridefest, I will find myself cruising at 35,000 feet, returning from a glorious vacation in Europe, and landing too late to participate. And I celebrated inside.

Ugh. Years ago, I came to the conclusion that the only requirement to declare myself gay was to admit that I was sexually attracted to men, and that was it. I didn't need to live any kind of lifestyle to prove how gay I was. It's good to be reminded of this. If this whole scene is what it means to be gay, then I resign. I have a different, better gay life to live.

FINALLY.

After Mondo was inexplicably denied his win against the odious Gretchen a few seasons back, I began losing interest and love for Project Runway. I seriously cannot fathom what the judges were thinking. I even publicly wrote "CRACK-SMOKING PROJECT RUNWAY JUDGES MUST DIE!" on Facebook that night, after seeing Mondo go down undeservedly in flames. Michael Kors and Nina Garcia were actually actively defending Gretchen's work. Who knew that Heidi would be the voice of reason? Needless to say, I was aghast, as was the whole crowd around me at Beauty Bar that night.

Side note: the next morning, I flew to Seattle for a seminar. Going through security, I saw a...uh...big-boned gal (in k.d. lang's letter-perfect terms) working TSA. She looked utterly uninterested in being at the airport at 6:00 in the morning. Until she say my Team Mondo t-shirt. Then she went ballistic, and vented mightily about how much Mondo was robbed. It was kinda cool to bond with her about it. One of those wink-wink-nudge-nudge-oh-you're-family! kind of moments.

PR has been steadily going downhill since then - and even before. Anya's win last season just about killed my interest for all time. The judges - or rather, the producers - ensured that an exotic woman from Trinidad and Tobago, who once created an amateur sex tape (I don't even think we can call it porn) and only learned how to sew six months prior to enrolling in PR, won over much more talented and deserving designers. (Paging Viktor Luna, please.) It was a story of a girl who rose from obscurity and a bit of ignominy and conquered the fashion world - even if only for her 15 minutes. How very Lifetime.

So a night like tonight was SO welcome! I'm certainly not the most fashionable of guys, nor am I knowledgeable in the sartorial arts, but to this inexperienced guy's eyes, Mondo's collection did actually look the most cohesive, consistent, and well-designed. But it was by a very slim margin. Austin's collection wasn't so unified, but damn, that wedding dress...utterly gorgeous. As was the dramatic evening gown. But there were just a few too many ennh moments for me to fully embrace it. Michael's collection was certainly nothing if not cohesive. But I think he let the prints dictate the collection a bit too much, unfortunately. Mondo, on the other hand, is an absolute master at commanding prints, instead of letting them command him. If that makes sense. He gets the most disparate ideas - ones that in a more inexperienced designer would produce ugly chaos - and creates the most amazing art out of them.

Still, the cynic in me (or perhaps the realist) has to say that Mondo's win was not 100% earned. Did he deserve it? I really do think so. Austin put up an incredible fight, though, and despite my cheering for the Denver darling, I would not have protested an Austin win. But everyone loves...well, in this case, not an underdog per se, but someone who was unfairly denied the title the first time around. The producers certainly had their $0.02, and to give Mondo the title brought the Lifetime story full circle.

Incidentally, lesson learned tonight from my excitement: do NOT post said excitement on Facebook. The stragglers will be PISSED at your unannounced spoiler. If I continue watching Project Runway (which, at this point, is a very dubious proposition), I will not be, *ahem*, everyone's spoliator. (Pretty savvy how I worked that in, right?)

This post brought to you by the fabulous amethyst and at least 1/2 of a cherry coke (that's 2 shots cherry vodka, 1 shot plain vodka, and a full can of caffeine-free Coke. Because it's late, I have a full day tomorrow, and cannot afford caffeine after 4 pm, let alone 9:30.)

Jerell actually admitted to eating bacon the morning of the runway show!

What is it about Project Runway that brings out the blogging in me? Oh yeah...it's the amethysts. Fun stuff. So, without further ado...the requisite solipsistic bullet points.

• Miss Piggy, I admit, made for perhaps the guiltiest pleasure in PR history. There's something really subversive and wacky and fun about designing a dress for Miss Piggy. And the designers were appropriately excited. But what? Miss Piggy is sexy? A "fashionista for the 21st century"? Keep in mind these are comments about a piece of felt made in the shape of a pig. One of the most fabulous pieces of felt ever, to be sure, but enthusiasm for such things should have logical limits.
• In more pointed news, yes, Gordana deserved to go, but sweet Jesus on shortbread, I would love to see some individualized challenges out there. For example: Mila? Make something - ANYTHING - without using black or white or any approximation thereof. Oh, and no geometric prints. April? Ditto, except for the geometric print prohibition; she doesn't need that. I'd love to see their heads spin once they are thrown into a room full of paisley pastels or tie-dye fabric. Everyone else on PR has at least some range.
• I actually watch Suburgatory. There. I said it. What did I just say about guilty pleasures? Yeah. With major emphasis on "guilty," and a very faint, almost whispered "pleasure." It's TV that shouldn't exist. It panders and assumes that because I grew up in suburbia and resented it, I would swallow it whole and not see through its vapid nature. It makes Beavis and Butthead look downright incisive (which, well...). It's what I watch on Thursday nights after PR to pass time, apparently. And that's about all I can say about it. (But it's still kinda fun, right? God, I'm pathetic.)
• Epigenetics. Simultaneously one of the most fascinating branches of science, and without question, the most frightening branch of science, bar none. In a nutshell: the food you eat and the way you live does not just influence your life, but the lives of generations (yes, plural) ahead of you. Scarily solid science backs this claim up. Needless to say, we're not exactly living the best and healthiest lives possible, and the general attitude of the masses is not enough to overcome the monolithic status quo on this one. Not to sound all conspiracy-theory or Malthusian about it, but if our species is doomed, or at least the good ol' US of A, this is one of the gunbarrels we're staring down. As Paul Simon said (yeah, yeah I know...): "maybe not in my lifetime, but in yours, I feel sure."
• So...now that you're all happy and peppy and bursting with optimism, raspberry vodka, cake vodka and Sprite does kinda work. Not the taste sensation that's sweeping the nation, but it's not bad.

And Rosie O'Donnell: "Google Santorum. That's what I think of him."

Random thoughts on tonight's trash telly gaystravaganza:

• Want to get nice and REEEEALLY happy? Want your mouth to be minty fresh? Need to clean your palate for the one you love after a garlic and onion extravaganza? The stinger is your BFF. Mix 3 shots brandy and 1 shot peppermint schnapps (or white creme de menthe, or my personal favorite, Rumpleminze). Put in a shaker with crushed ice (not cubed...you need the ice to melt so it's diluted at least a bit.) Pour in a cocktail glass. Instant sophistication. Mr. Man thinks it's too Scope-like, but he hasn't had a vodka stinger like I have. Verdict is out on its hangover-producing properties, but I don't think it's a good one to have on a school night. (Except for that it goes so well with Project Runway All-Stars...see below.) Awfully strong. I'll let y'all know tomorrow.
• If any of you ever see me wearing a snuggie or a Forever Lazy (is there a difference?), or if you see me ever, EVER watching Jersey Shore or Keeping Up With the Kardashians of my own volition, do not construe this as a cry for help. By that time, I'm too far gone. Euthanasia may be the only option. (I say this as lightly as possible...no, I'm not about taking my life. But this may be the ultimate sign that I have completely, utterly given up.)
• Pajama Jeans: what say ye, oh fair women of the world? It seems just a half-step removed from the aforementioned sartorial disasters, but I sense a big draw to form-fitting jeans that don't feel like sausage casing, and I can respect that.
• Andy Cohen: holy yums! I do like my men big and beefy, but he's just all kinds of adorable. He seems like the perfect pocket-gay, even if he's not quite that petite. But OMG (and you would expect this): boy is he the name-dropper! Do not join his Twitter feed unless you want to be overwhelmed with twats from all the hottest parties with all the hottest names every 15 seconds. I just couldn't keep up.
• Project Runway All-Stars: Project Runway has not been this good in SEASONS. As a Denverite, I'm still firmly on Team Mondo (go Mexi-pixie!), but it has to be said: Rami and Austin are gonna bring it. And right there are the three best reasons to watch. Mondo just comes up with the wildest ideas and somehow pins them down to reality, and the results are stunning. (And I'm just talking about his clothes...not the ones he designs for his models! Just kidding...but the boy sure has a fun, unique personal style that I hope never goes away.) Austin is one of the most beautifully and unapologetically androgynous creatures ever to grace this plane, and his designs are equally gorgeous. And Rami's draping skills are unparalleled, but he has now shown two stunning looks that have no hint of draping, showing some impressive breadth that, let's be honest, was just waiting to bubble to the surface. Also? HOT beyond all hotness. His glasses just multiply it ten times. Again, I like my menzes bigger and beefier, but he'll do just fine, thank you very much. He's got the muscles, the smile, the stubble, the dark eyes, the olive skin...yeah...nomnomnom.
• Oh, and can I say how very, very, VERY grateful I am that Absolutely Fabulous is back? Eddy and Pats will NEVER go out of style. You know a British comedy is good when it doesn't even feel like a British comedy, i.e., you can understand the humor perfectly, even if the accents can be a bit tough to decipher sometimes. The humor hasn't aged one bit, even if some of the actors have. Bless.

Mr. Cellophane - Chicago

I never woulda guessed this one would have made it here. Then again, it's not always 2 in the morning, and I'm not always under the affluence of incohol. But for those of you who are dying for those "fly on the wall" moments, Chicago at 2 in the morning provides 'em. (Note, if you will, the time of this blog post.)

Chicago (the town) is my least favorite city of all time, but Chicago (the musical) may just be my favorite musical. Ah, irony. Get me nice and happy (vodka or rum only, please...I like to be at least semi-functional the next morning), pop Chicago in the DVD player, and watch me go to town. Seriously. I will vamp and lip-synch to most of the songs there. In the dark. With no one watching me. I will praise, then kvetch about that funny honey of mine. I will proclaim that when you're good to Mama, Mama's good to you. I will tango with the best and sassiest and angriest of the murderesses in the cellblock. And I will become Roxie Hart, just to say that the name on everybody's lips is gonna be - sing it! - Roxie.

Perhaps more than all other songs, "Mr. Cellophane" catches me at my most vulnerable, and I relate to it more than anything on Chicago. Irony, I know, for someone who has been more visible than about 95% of most Americans. But I have a terrible tendency to fall into self-pity and melancholia. Even more ironic is the fact that I often crave solitude; I don't bemoan it. I'm not quite Greta Garbo, mind you, but I do have my moments, and if given the choice, most times, I'd rather spend a quiet night either alone or with just a select friend or two or three. (Don't get me wrong...I do enjoy a wild night out on the town every once in a while.)

But when you look at Amos, pitiful character that he is, you can't help but feel for him. His wife double-crosses him, becomes pregnant with another man while behind bars, lies to him on the stand, and then abandons him after she's declared innocent. And that's his fate, end of story. Roxie goes on to stardom with her arch-nemesis, and ignores the only guy who offered her unconditional love? Ouch.

I dunno. Something about that abandonment and sorrow just strikes a really deep chord in me, and I'm not sure why. People do like me, for the most part. But I often come off as aloof, which is a shame. I've been blown off in social situations many times, probably no more than most anyone else, but I think I've let this hit me more than most. Still, I'm alternately exhilarated and frightened to death to perform this song on karaoke. It ain't no "Just a Gigolo," that's for sure. Very sobering and soul-baring, which ain't exactly the domain of karaoke. But again, I've emoted enough for a stage in the den of my home, singing and acting along with John C. Reilly. I ain't nowhere near good enough to be Amos on stage, but in my head, I can fully empathize and inhabit his character. Who knows? Maybe some night, I'll screw up the courage, down enough liquid courage, and see what happens on stage. Maybe in DC, where if I screw up, no one of consequence will care, and I can bring it back home all polished up.

(Fun Uncle Spike fact: in 2007, whilst celebrating my birthday, in the safety and comfort of my living room, I downed four appletinis. Maybe five. The last three were spiked with cinnamon schnapps. I totally bonded with Chicago. And spent the next two days recovering. PAAAAIN. To this day, I cannot tolerate appletinis.)

Chocolate Amethyst

I often enter the world of creativity when it comes to alcohol. Mr. Man prefers his tried-and-true rum and diet Coke, time and again. (Well, sometimes he switches to diet Dr. Pepper, and if he wants to sin, he'll indulge in the real stuff. But rarely.) But I'll try all sorts of different concoctions. No mixologist, I, however. More often than not, my drinks are valiant attempts, and that's as far as they go.

A year ago, almost exactly, inspiration struck like it will from time to time. But this time, the attempt was a hit. So here's the recipe:

Chocolate Amethyst

2 shots vanilla vodka
1 shot vodka
1 shot white creme de cacao
1/2 shot Chambord

Shake together with ice in a martini shaker, and serve in a cocktail glass.

Simple, right? So, more blogging to regale ya:

It turns out a pretty light lavender. (Usually lighter than it appears in this picture.) I originally tried it with dark creme de cacao. From a taste perspective, sure, it's the same. But to really evoke the name "Amethyst," you have to use white creme de cacao.

Mr. Man thought it would be especially decadent with Godiva liqueur. I didn't think it would make that much of a difference. So one night, because it's fun to drink these, we did a blind taste test, and found the taste about 99.9% the same. I liked the creme de cacao just the slightest bit more, and Mr. Man thought Godiva won out, but just by a sliver. But again, the color is part of the drink, so out went the Godiva.

The first sip may taste a bit cough syrupy. That's, unfortunately, what happens quite often when you use Chambord. But get past that first sip, and the rest is divine.

Mr. Man, well-connected social whore that he is, broadcast news of the Amethyst far and wide soon after its discovery. By far and wide, I mean to friends in places like India, Brazil, Australia, and the Netherlands. And, of course, stateside. Funny how the world wide webiverse works like that, ain't?

A few iterations followed, with varying degrees of success.

• Substitute creme de banana for the Chambord, and you have a wonderful banana split-flavored concoction. Especially good with cream added in.
• Substitute 1/4 shot of creme de menthe for the Chambord, and there's a good chocolate mint drink. Do NOT go overboard with the creme de menthe, lest you end up with vanilla-flavored Scope.
• Limoncello instead of Chambord results in Generic Sweet Martini #248A.

One last fun fact: the word "amethyst" is derived from a Greek word that means "not intoxicating" or "not intoxicated." Apparently the gem amethyst was rumored to prevent intoxication. Amusing, right?

So there's your drink for the new year. Happy 2011!

Mai Tai

I've mentioned this one before. During my tiki summer of 2004, I discovered a recipe for a mai tai that I thought would fit the bill...something tropical, sweet, fruity, and strong. Yes, yes, yes, and HELL YEAH! Depth charge to the liver and the pancreas in one fell swoop. When I made one of these hummers, that did me just fine for the night. Once, I decided to have two. I think I lost my way to the bedroom that night and just passed out in the hall. (This is even less impressive knowing that at the time, the living room recliner and the bedroom were separated by, oh, maybe 20 feet. And the hall was straight.)

Anyhow, ever since that time, I have referred to this particular mai tai recipe as the drink of death. You don't drink this one lightly. You drink it to get wasted. For the uninitiated, it tastes like slightly flavored ethanol with red food coloring. (Incidentally, it looks MUCH redder than this picture portrays, thanks to grenadine.) The recipe comes from the New York Bartender's Guide. (So it ain't Trader Vic's. Whatever.)

So, the Mai Tai of 2004, the Drink of Death:

2 shots light rum

2 shots dark rum

1 shot orange curacao

1 shot lime juice

1 tbsp grenadine

1 tbsp orgeat (almond syrup)

Mix together in a shaker pre-filled with ice. Serve on the rocks in a big glass. With a serious drink like this, ya don't need no stinkin' paper umbrellas or cherries or pineapple garnishes. But they might help it go down smoother.