Whiskey
“Whiskey and pain Both taste the same During the time they go down” — John Prine
“Whiskey straight can chase those blues away” — any number of blues men
Late last night I was telling someone about the Richard Brautigan story “Pacific Radio Fire,” about a man whose best friend’s wife leaves him. The two of them go down to the beach with a bottle, and the friend cries. The narrator says, “We were both depressed. I didn’t know what he was going to do with the rest of his life, either.” Empathy is a beautiful thing. I’m glad we have alcohol so that those of us who are romantic about the world have some way to suffer more, and so those of us who are not romantic about the world have some way to, however briefly, understand what the rest of the people are feeling.
I think that there should be a continuity in the packaging of one’s evening, and monochromism is a facet of this. The Royalton hotel is all black and sleek, and everyone there is beautiful, sleek, and maybe once dated a black person. The perfect thing to wear there is black, and the perfect hair color to have is blonde, but just as no one is born wearing a black suit, it’s better for it to be a dye job.
When the Royalton opened, the lobby bar served only vodka and champagne, which I thought was brilliant, because it showed an understanding of the situation. The bar menu was another facet of the design of the space. However, while the bar understood, the bar patrons did not; now you can get eight dollar Heinekens and be satisfied. And the last time I was there I saw a man in a plaid shirt and corduroy jacket. Things change.
There was a time when, like the Royalton of old, I felt that one could live on vodka alone, with occasional doses of champagne. Then I had my lengthy Jameson phase, during which I innovated the “Lost Empire,” a double Jameson with a Red Stripe on the side. Of course, now Jameson is very hip and popular (which means that their production has ramped up, and honestly, no two bottles are of the same quality), and I don’t drink beer much, with the exception of here in Japan, where it’s been all beer and plenty of it. But back in New York, I recently found myself drinking Old Grand-Dad with abandon, or Wild Turkey. Maybe Scotch is next. I am obviously working through something: brown.
by Jack, October 3, 2003 2:18 PM | More from Drinking
Within the Chronology
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I've been trying to figure out who you reminded me of until i finally came across this post. At which point it hit me, you're Holden Caufield, Charles Bukowski, and Richard Brautigan all rolled into one. But before you go patting yourself on the back remember Jack, one went insane, one shot himself in the head, and the other (which appears to be your chosen path) drank himself to death. Well done Jack, very well done.
Jesus fucking christ. I feel so much better now. Oh, thank god. Stop and I'll slit your throat. Thankyou.
Nick, I don't know if that's a compliment or a threat, or even to whom it's addressed, but thank you for stopping by. If not you, then who? If not now, then why not? A great American said that, and I'm glad you were here to hear it.