The Downhill Slide

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

It's a slippery slope to full-blown alcoholism, and I feel like I just put on a pair of greased rollerblades.

Last week, my bill at the liquor store was $44.47. Sweet, merciful crap.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, The Angry Piper did not drink at all. Not a drop. This was mainly due to a rather unfortunate experience I had in high school. One crazy New Year's eve I drank way too much of way too many different things with predictable results. That night (1/1/1988), well after the ball dropped, I threw up all over my best friend's bathroom, including (but not limited to) his counter, sink, toilet, floor, and worst of all: his toothbrushes. I wasn't in any hurry to drink again, and for 12 years I didn't.

(Incidentally, this episode was only the second time in my life I drank alcohol. My then-best "friend" would later go on to fuck my then-girlfriend, so I guess there's such a thing as pre-emptive revenge.)

A couple of years ago I started drinking beer, because I discovered I like beer. A lot. Prior to that, I thought beer = shit like Budweiser and Miller Lite. A few Guinness, Harp, and Bass later, I knew different. I’ve also developed a taste for full-bodied red wine (kinda goes with my taste for full-bodied women, although I haven’t enjoyed both together in a long, long, LONG fucking time.). I really enjoy Australian red wines like Yellowtail, Kelly’s Revenge, and The Little Penguin. My preferred red is Shiraz, although I like Merlot and Cabernet too. I stick to the $8-$10 range for a bottle of wine; if this makes me a wine Philistine, so be it. My palate isn’t sophisticated enough to tell the difference between a $40 bottle and an $8 bottle, and last I checked, 8 goes into 40 FIVE times.

Up until now, I’ve always taken some measure of security from the fact that I can’t stomach hard liquor. It’s not that I can’t drink it; it’s that I don’t like it. I think tequila is the single most disgusting drink ever created. I don’t like vodka, liqueurs or brandy. I hate the taste of whiskey and scotch, so I can’t pound the Manhattans like Dr. Murk and Mr. Tooserious.

But here’s the problem: I recently discovered I like martinis. I’m not talking TGIFriday’s “Appletinis”, chocolate martinis, cosmopolitans, or any lame martini derivative. The martinis I like are dry and dirty: lots of gin, a splash of vermouth, and a generous helping of olives and olive brine to salt things up a little—the kind of martini that makes your breath smell like jet fuel.

A few weeks ago Dr. Murk, Mr. Tooserious and I went to see Gaelic Storm at a local restaurant function room. Not the best venue to see Gaelic Storm, but it was a benefit concert and they’re so fucking good I’ll see them wherever I can. I planned on guzzling down the pints while I was there, but the layout of the room and the venue made such an endeavor difficult as a trip to the bar meant fighting my way through a crowd of bluehairs—not something I really wanted to do. I got a martini to drink with my pints so that further trips to the bar would be unnecessary. I finished it much quicker than I thought I would and paid a cocktail waitress to get me another one.

Turns out a martini has a much higher alcohol content than a beer. Who knew?

Contrary to popular belief— a belief perpetuated by Malach— The Angry Piper is not often drunk. My tolerance is quite high—or so I thought. I didn’t feel the effects of my drinks until I “came down,” i.e. stopped singing, doing the funky ceili and shaking my groove thing. When the adrenaline wore off, I realized I was much drunker than I had been in a long time, and I wondered if Gaelic Storm’s left-handed piper—a rarity— was a figment of my imagination. Of course, 2 martinis and 5 pints of Smithwick’s will have that effect.

And so last week I felt a twinge of concern when I spent over 40 bucks at the packie, but it’s the first time I’ve ever bought hard liquor—gin and vermouth—as well as wine.

Those of you concerned for my liver need not worry—at least not yet. I rarely drink to debilitating excess and when I do—as I did in the night above—I find a ride home. I have never drunk myself to “overnight guest” status unless it was planned. I don’t drink to forget, drink in the morning or drink alone in the dark. I haven’t been sick from the drink since I was 16. You won’t be calling me “The Jaundiced Piper” anytime soon.

Still, gin is hard liquor, and no one made me buy it. I feel like I crossed an invisible line, and try as I might, I can’t feel 100% ok with it.