It has been a bumpy road to the Majors. Our livers have gone through much, haven’t they? Oh, come on. You must recall such indulgences as Fire Water, Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, and chartreuse (*gag*). When I think of all the things I’ve put my body through it amazes me that I can remember my name, last four digits, and where I left my damn keys.
The next time you walk into a bar, take note of the bottles on the top shelves and the dust they’ve accumulated. In the middle, you’ll find my buddy, Galliano. He’s taller than the rest and neglected more than most. Mix him with cola and you get something close to root beer that will, indeed, make you suicidal if you overdose. He gets points for a pretty bottle. He gets lonely because of the icky yellow liquid within.
An early favorite of mine was sloe gin. Jesus, that’s some gross shit right there. Yes, I’ve had a sloe gin fizz or fifty (and no, not while doing a limbo). I haven’t seen it around lately. It had a saturation of red that would instantly destroy any garment it came in contact with. I probably have a pink, pissed-off liver.
One day, a kind bartender turned me on to something much less vile: the Singapore Sling. This hangover seed was a funky combination of cherry-flavored brandy, gin, and sour mix. It was served in a frosted, tall glass with a big straw and a cherry. Yum. Then again, after a half dozen of those, my nose went numb and I parked on the lawn.
I tried to save money during my college years by indulging in such delicacies as Malt Apple Duck and Tango. (I apologize if I’ve just caused you mouth-puke a bit.) The former came in a 40-ounce bottle and tasted indeed like apple beer. The latter was what you’d get if you were foolish enough to mix cheap vodka with Tang. I drank a few of those my sophomore year and learned how to release fluid from both ends simultaneously. Don’t even act like you’ve never.
There was a club back in the who-gives-a-shit 80s that featured a Thursday night deal that probably wasn’t a great idea. It was $10 for all you can drink all night—anything you want. If I were the seasoned pro I am now, I would opt for something velvety on the rocks. As a twenty-something dingbat, I ordered Black Russians and lost consciousness. Who drinks Black Russians? Dumb white Italians, that’s who.
Before anyone came up with more vodka flavors than Baskin Robbins, we had three choices: vodka, cherry vodka, and (God forbid) lime vodka. If you drank lime vodka, you had definitely given up on life and were choosing a gutter nap. Anyone who polished off fifths of that neon green nonsense must now be pushing around a rusty shopping cart while yelling at imaginary beings.
So, now we’re left with micro-brews and SoCo lime. B&J and Zima are fading away. We’ll never pass around a bottle of Giacobazzi again. Sad.