Missing a bad habit.

Yeah, I've quit smoking, but in my heart I'll always be a smoker. That's probably why today's Wikipedia featured article on the anti-tobacco movement in Nazi Germany tickled my little smoker's lungs. It gives me a legitimate reductio ad Hitlerum when I call the anti-smoking lobby "fascist."

The fifth food group . . .

So I was visiting a lady friend last night, and I ended up hanging out until close to midnight. That’s not really my story, except that I hadn’t eaten dinner before I swung by her place, because I figured I’d just eat after. Problematically, she had beer, and I had four on my empty stomach. When I got home, I was a little drunk, and quite hungry, but it was late and I had no desire to actually cook anything, and unfortunately my refrigerator was bereft of any leftovers or anything that could qualify as sustenance, so I opened a can of Underwood deviled ham and ate it right out of the can. I’ll tell you what, it wasn’t very satisfying. Wasn’t very satisfying at all.

Bender lite

It turns out that I got drunk every night this week. I've been a good citizen and made it to work with minimal hangover, but it doesn't change the fact that I've woken up on my couch fully clothed at around 4:00 a.m. for four mornings straight and had to shuffle into my bedroom. The only real downside I've noted is that I keep forgetting to eat dinner. Bar appetizers hardly qualify as sustenance, and I think the celery that comes with buffalo wings actually has negative calories, so malnourishment is my main concern. As far as benders go, this really doesn't qualify as one, I know, but I sure am hungry this morning.

Making it happen.

There’s a sushi place that opened up within walking distance from my house last summer. Aside from being super convenient, the place is fabulous. The fish is always fresh and the quality is unrivaled. It’s not the fanciest place, and there’s not much flash, but when I get the craving, I invariably find myself there. They don’t have a liquor license, so the place is BYOB, which is actually pretty cool, since I’ve found myself trying out different types of sake that I pick up either from Cost Plus, or the local “fancy” grocery store. Last Tuesday, I walked there, but forgot my sake in my refrigerator. I ducked out to go get it, and Koji, the sushi chef was out back for a “smoke” break. I’ll leave it to you to figure out the quotation marks. I laughed as I caught the unmistakable scent, since I’d describe Koji as demure, if that adjective can be applied to a male, and I’d never really said much more than a couple of things to him. As I jogged past him, I commented that I’d forgotten my sake. “Bring me back some vodka!” he called after me. I knew he was joking, but when I got home, I half-filled a plastic juice tumbler with Ketel One from the Costco-sized bottle in my freezer, and took it back with me. I gave Koji the vodka, and was delighted when a couple of chef’s choices came my way gratis. Among them was some delicious toro nigiri. When the check came, it was surprisingly less than I had expected.

Last night, I had the sushi craving again, so I went to the fancy grocery store to pick up a bottle of sake. As I was in the liquor aisle, I noticed that they had a sale on Rain vodka. I’d never tried it, but it was regularly $24 for a bottle, and selling for $17. In light of the “access and cachet” moment I’d had at Robertson’s on Friday, I decided to try an experiment. I bought the vodka, intent on giving it as a gift to Koji. I even bought one of those fancy little wine carriers so it would look gift wrapped. Let me tell you . . . after I got there and presented the bottle to him, as far as access and cachet goes, it was indescribable.

Koji came from around the bar, shook my hand and bowed, thanked me repeatedly, and told me that he was going to do something special for me. One of the waitresses opened the bottle on the spot and poured him a long draught of the hooch. She also brought me a sake cup full of it for my enjoyment as I waited for a table to open up. Served neat, I was pretty impressed with the smoothness of the Rain.

I paid close attention to my order, since I was sort of experimenting. I ordered some yellowtail, some snapper, a Vegas roll, and a California roll. When my order came out, Koji had doubled all my orders, and had included some toro sashimi, and a couple of other morsels that I’d never tried or seen. He also included some pickled wasabi. I actually struggled to eat it all . . . I was literally gorging myself on sushi. When I finally threw in the towel, I was spent. The vodka and the sake had also gone to my head a little and I was glad that I’d walked to the place. I asked for the check, and when the waitress brought it to me, I couldn’t help but chuckle. $31. I glanced at the sushi-menu just to gauge the net worth of what I’d been served. By my estimates, it was about $75 worth of sushi. The toro sashimi by itself would have been $20 if I had ordered it.

Sometimes, if you actually know somebody, or if you’re a regular at a place, greasing them a $20 bill can come across a little gauche. For those folks, the access and cachet requires thoughtfulness. Thoughtfulness always pays off.

Bachelor life

I finished my Costco-sized bottle of Crown Royal last night and had to break into my bottle of Crown Special Reserve. I have to tell you, strange as it sounds, I prefer the regular Crown to the Special Reserve.

Got home from work late last night, and had two boiled eggs and a can of tuna for dinner. As it often is, the Crown was the highlight of the evening.

Epicurean truth

It was 35 degrees in Phoenix this morning. Good thing I brought my coat. Can’t believe I actually debated whether to do so. Had a very nice, relaxing dinner with Carlos last night at a place called Durant’s. Ended up getting a little lit. Had three Crown Royals during the interview, and half a bottle of wine at dinner.

Let me tell you, Durant’s is a “Jack” kind of place, down to the red wall paper. The founder, Jack(!) Durant’s words are prominent there – words that speak veritas to me:

Good Friends, Great Steaks, & the Best Booze, are the necessities of life.

One Night in Bangkok

I’ve been to more than my fair share of party cities (such as Las Vegas, New Orleans, and Ibiza); and to a decent number of “special” parties in cities not really known for their partying for the rest of the year (ranging from Frontier Days in Cheyenne, Wyoming, to the San Fermines in Pamplona, Spain). Volumes have been written on any of these destinations. What I want to discuss today are the five best non-party-party cities that I’ve stumbled across in my adventures. By that, I mean, none of the following cities is a “destination” and I would never suggest that anybody go out of their way to visit any of them. In fact, a couple of them are downright uncool. But all five of the following cities exceeded any expectation that I may have had about enjoying them, and I had an exceedingly good time in each one of them (some more than once), and some I enjoyed far more that cities that I have visited with higher sense of expectation – for instance, on each of the three times that I have been in Baltimore, I have had a much better time than I have ever had in the half-dozen or so times that I have been to Washington, D.C., although D.C. is the “destination city” and I’ve never met anyone that actually wanted to visit Baltimore.

In chronological order:

1. Chihuahua, Mexico. Granted, I was 18 years old, couldn’t legally drink in the States, and it was my first real trip out of the country, but I partied like a rock star in Chihuahua when I found myself there in the Spring of 1995. Despite the sound of it, the city was pretty cosmopolitan and the nightclubs were better than anything I’d ever seen. The girls were pretty, the beer was cheap, and the nights never seemed to end.
   
   
2. Setúbal, Portugal. There’s nothing quite like finding yourself in a strange city in a foreign country after everything’s closed when you realize that you have no money in the proper currency, no knowledge of the local language, and no real plan. I faced that reality along with four friends during a failed attempt to get to Lisbon for a three-day weekend in the summer of 1997. The Setúbal locals proved to be collective guardian angels and their city proved quite the playground. We never made it to Lisbon, opting instead to spend the weekend hitting the beautiful local beaches by day and enjoying the Portuguese generosity as they showered us with fish based foods and round after round of wine and beer by night. I may never return, but I definitely salute the Setubalese for their commitment to the good times.
   
   
3. Baltimore, Maryland. My college roommate lived in D.C. after we graduated, and I had never been there when I visited him in 1999. Imagine my disappointment when he told me that one evening we were going to meet up with some of his friends in Baltimore. I didn’t fly to our nation’s capital to live some sort of knock-off of Diner. When I woke up on a strange couch covered by a strange afghan in somebody’s apartment with no real memory of how I got there and only patches of memory involving shots at bars both on the inner harbor and not on the inner harbor, I realized that the town had potential. I’ve found myself there two more times since, and the locals are just as awesome as they were that first time. I can taste the Old Bay and the cold beer as I type this.
   
   
4. Salt Lake City, Utah. I felt like I had been punished when my boss told me that I had to spend a week in Orem, Utah in October of 2003. The bosom of the Mormon religion is not exactly where you’d expect to find a good party, and the state of Utah makes getting one’s drink on a challenge, but the non-Mormons in SLC are more than up to it. My favorite memory of Utah from that trip was the overwhelming smell of marijuana permeating the (non-smoking) bar/private club that I found myself in as I enjoyed the live music of Michael Franti and Spearhead.
   
   
5. Tucson, Arizona. I’ve partied in Tucson twice – once in 2001 and once in May of 2007 when I was out there for a wedding, and hit the town with Laz and Frankie the night before the ceremony. Back in 2001, I woke up fully clothed in my hotel room on a Saturday morning with no memory of what had transpired the night before, but a pocket full of credit card receipts attesting to the good times that I’d had and the rounds of shots that I had bought. The consummate experience from the last time I was there was the out-of-body experience I had at a bar called the Meet Rack where a guy named “God,” who appears to be the owner, happily brands willing patrons with an image of HIS FACE. That pretty much summarizes what drinking in Tucson has been for me, and why it has to make the top five of my non-party-party cities.

Guilty Pleasure

Last night I was watching the Red Sox kick the crap out of the Rockies and I realized that I had forgotten to eat dinner. I didn't feel like ordering a pizza, and I'd had Chinese for lunch. My refrigerator is a typical bachelor 'fridge, with more condiments and beverages than actual food in it. So I opened my pantry and began to go through the cans. Tuna was too depressing, and beans/chili would wreak havoc on my stomach. My eyes alighted on the perfect meal in a can: Dinty Moore Beef Stew. I love this stuff. With a slice of white bread to mop up the gravy, it is truly sublime. I washed it down with a cream soda, and was eminently satisfied at the end of my meal.

Vice Report

I more than make up my membership fees at the warehouse clubs on booze and smokes. Today's damage at Sam's Club:

Bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon: $24.12
Carton of Marlboro Reds: $44.25
Tax man: $5.54
Total: $73.91

The bourbon, in particular, was a pretty good deal, even if I didn't really need another bottle of bourbon in my cabinet. Now I've got four varieties of bourbon in there, to go with all the different rums I've collected over the years (Cuban, Jamaican, Puerto Rican, spiced) as libations primarily for the guests.

Funny e-mail of the day

From a guy that we met at a mutual friend's happy hour a few weeks back that we ran into at the Pub on Friday night:

Hey dude,

I don't remember precisely how things went down Friday, as I was a real mess by the time I saw you and Frankie, but it was good to see you guys.

I had some drink called a Kentucky sidecar early in the night, and I'm never having another drink that sounds like it belongs in a sex-position email forward again. It's like playing cards with somebody with the first name of a city. Bad idea. I think I actually cried on Saturday morning I was so hung-over. anyway, good to see you guys again.

Never having heard of this particular cocktail, I Googled it, and here share my findings with you, dear readers: the Kentucky Sidecar is made with bourbon, Cointreau, sweet & sour, and a sugared rim, with a twist. Some recipes seem to substitute Frangelico for Cointreau, which is weird since oranges don't taste remotely like hazelnuts. Either way, I don't believe in diluting a good bourbon with crap like lemonade, so I'll avoid the cocktail altogether and give this post a rest.

Razorblade ramblings

In my life I've had five regular barbers. I once heard that the average guy has had fewer barbers in his life than he has had girlfriends. I suspect somebody just made that up, and I don't care enough to research it, but at least in my case I know it to be true. My current barber is an angry Russian Jew. One plus to having a Jewish barber is that the guy's open on Sundays, which is great because it's most convenient for me. As an aside, I don't trust barbers trained in America. Only one of my regular barbers -- my first -- has been American born, and I wore a ball cap for much of that era. By and large, I don't want an American with a straight razor anywhere near my throat.

Today, I opted for a hot-towel shave in addition to my typical haircut. I do that about twice a year or so. It's expensive and time consuming, but when done right, it's one of the most relaxing and fulfilling things a man can do for himself.

Rope

I don't consider myself to be a deviant in many ways. But I couldn't help but wonder how others perceive me when one day the Kaiser called me while I was in the middle of a beer at the Pub. I stepped outside to have the conversation as I couldn't hear him clearly over the barroom din.

"Hey puto, Marie and I were wondering what sort of lube you recommend." (Marie is his long-term girlfriend.)

"Excuse me?" I replied.

"You know, personal lubricant . . . like KY."

"Ohhh . . . luuuube," I replied, "wait -- what the hell am I -- who made me the lube consultant???"

"Well, you always seem to know about these things."

And the sad thing is, I actually had an opinion to share with the guy. I told him what I thought: that KY was the old trusty, Astroglide was more hype than what it's worth and I wouldn't spend my money on it, though it would do, and if they were at a place with a selection, he and Marie would probably really like Wet, which was not only better than the other two I mentioned, but also comes in a variety of fruit flavors. Also, if he want to the right shop, they would have sample sizes of different types and they should probably try out a few before settling on one particular brand.

This isn't the first time that somebody's called me up with questions of this sort -- not just lube, but "deviant" sex questions. So there I was. The kink consultant for my friends. And I had to ask myself how I came to be that guy . . . and I think it came from the time that my friends were making fun of one of our buddies because he had a pair of fuzzy handcuffs at his place. And I said: "Fuzzy handcuffs are for posers. Real men know how to tie knots." And that pretty much cast me into the role of libertine in the eyes of all. And I'm serious; I can tie you a bowline, a prusik, or a reef knot with one hand in pitch blackness. I kind of kick ass that way.

The Kaiser thanked me and hung up the phone, and I walked back into the Pub. "Who was that?" Frankie asked.

"The Kaiser. He and Marie are shopping for lube."

"For him or for her?"

"I have no idea. I didn't want to ask. . . ."

Priorities

I just spent $70.24 on booze at Costco. Sometimes I reflect on how much money I could save if I cut back on vice. Then I realize that if I did, I would be incredibly bored.

Gin & Tonic Kind of Life

Back when I was in school, I lived in a high-rise dorm in Chicago for three years, and had a tight-knit group of friends that I'm thankful for to this day. Back in the spring of 2001, my friend Jacob and I went on a three-month bender, starting on New Years Eve and ending when I got back from Spring break. We got sloppy drunk every night except Valentine's Day in that span. Typically, we'd get out of class around 3:00 and go to the supermarket and buy the liquor of the day. More often than not, we'd get a fifth of Seagram's 7, since it used to sell for less than $10 back then. We could then go back to the dorm, buy Sprite at the dorm cafeteria on our meal plan and really start the day.

Why did we stop the bender, I hear you asking? Well, I came down with an upper-respiratory infection from my spring break adventures in the 3rd world and got put on some pretty heavy meds that the booze just didn't go right with. So it goes; I suppose going on the wagon for a while didn't hurt anyone.

But back to the story -- for a while we got on a gin kick. Bombay. Tanqueray. Gimlets with the Odwalla we'd buy on our meal plans were particularly tasty. So one day, we needed to get ice for our gin and tonics. I lived on the 9th floor, and there was an ice machine on the 4th floor, so we got on the elevator with an ice bucket. It was like 3:15 p.m. A girl got on the elevator on the 6th floor, and did a double take at the ice bucket.

Jack: "Gin and tonics . . ."

Girl: "Gin and tonic kind of day???"

Jacob (shrugging): "Gin and tonic kind of life."

It really was very funny. Especially since we got off on the 9th floor before she could respond. That era was my last great bender. Jacob ended up marrying my next door neighbor in that dorm, whom he met in my room. One day, I was reminiscing about it, and found the quantity of alcohol consumed to be excessive, so I suspected with age I was exaggerating it, but she verified that indeed, back then, I was a drunk.

A true velvet hammer

The drink count last night was as follows: a glass of Crown Royal (rocks) before dinner; split a bottle of wine with a lady friend over a steak, and then we went to the Pub right after that for a nightcap. Neither of us was as drunk as we wanted to be, so we explained our predicament to the waitress. She came back with a pint of Strongbow cider for each of us, along with a shot of Grey Goose's pear flavored vodka. She instructed us to drop the shot into the cider (like a Sake bomber). Well, the resulting concoction tasted like an apple jolly rancher, and went down as smooth as you can imagine. We had two each within a half hour. Let me tell you, the result was pretty spectacular. My house this morning was disheveled as only a drunk can dishevel, but the memories of the evening after my second cigarette at the pub are so tangled, I can't really piece it together well.

And in other news

Study: Anti-smoking ads have opposite effect on teens. And water is still wet. My smokes are up to over $6 a pack, and I'm sure half of that goes to nonsense such as funding these silly ads. Cute girls have gotten far more teenaged boys smoking than Joe Camel ever did. On the plus-side, due to this new puritanism, I've made all sorts of new friends, as we smokers have been relegated to 10 square-feet of the outside patio, 20 feet from the door of any given bar anymore.

As for why I smoke? Even after 13 years of knowing it's bad for me? Because, let's face it, smoking IS cool. It's only uncool when uncool people do it. If you're fat and ugly, you're fat and ugly; smoking just makes you a fat and ugly smoker. Luis Buñuel, who was far more articulate than I ever will be, summarized why I smoke as follows:

“If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It's a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul. People smoke to celebrate a happy moment, or to hide a bitter regret. Whether you're alone or with friends, it's a joy for all the senses. What lovelier sight is there than that double row of white cigarettes, lined up like soldiers on parade and wrapped in silver paper? I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savor the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch the flame spurt up, love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth.”

I'll talk about the queen another day. I believe I'll take a cigarette break now.

Homage to the taco

Damn, I'm craving a taco and it's only 9:45 a.m. I hate to say it, but I suspect the taco is edging out the hot-dog as all-American fare. How can one not like the taco in its simplicity and nutritional elegance? What's better than a taco? Three tacos.

I love street vendors.

If you can't enjoy a hot dog at 2:30 in the morning, then the terrorists have already won.

Lawyers, Guns and Money

Got the hangover false-dawn this morning. Despite the fact that I went to bed at 2:30, I awoke at 5:30 ready to start the day. In about half an hour, my body will betray me, and want to go back to sleep until 10:00. But it will be too late. I need to be in the office by eight today. So it goes. I sure am hungry, though. Perhaps because I didn't keep last night's dinner down, opting instead to leave it in the parking lot of last night's second bar.

As an aside, I find it much easier on the body to vomit while drunk, rather than while hungover.

I swear, I set out to have one -- maybe two beers last night. My compadre, Frankie, decided to hit on the waitress at the second bar. When she got off at ten, he made up a whole plan that he and I had for the evening and invited her along with us. Up to that moment, I was planning to finish my beer, go home, and watch South Park until I dozed off on the couch. Instead, by midnight I was halfway into my third Grey Goose (rocks) at the third bar, bragging about my skills at bocce. How I ended up bragging about that is lost in the fog. I don't play bocce. Didn't even know how to spell it until just now.

I had a graphic dream about that waitress. This morning I'm having trouble separating the dream from the reality. Shit. Alarm clock just went off.

Product loyalty

I remember when my dad told me not to be cheap when it came to "rubbers." He said that when he was young Trojan was a very trusted brand. To this day, I've never purchased any other brand of condom.