Politics, schmolitics

I was reading this morning’s New York Times Magazine, and I saw a profile of Rachel Maddow, host of talk shows on Air America and MSNBC. I’ve never listened to Maddow or watched her show, even though many of my friends think the world of her. Political talk shows just aren’t my cup of tea, even when I agree with the host.

There’s a lot to like about Rachel Maddow in this piece. She’s a mustard person. She keeps Champagne in the fridge at all times. Her favorite movie is The Manchurian Candidate–Frankenheimer, not Demme. But then, there are these tidbits:

By her bed: Comic books. I read comics sometimes and graphic novels. I appreciate that genre.

Hobby: I am a hobbyist bartender. I have a liquor cabinet. I research classic drinks from the golden age of American cocktails and I make them for me and Susan.

Favorite obscure liquor: Rhum agricole. It is rum made from sugar-cane juice rather than molasses. It is freaking awesome.

Le pant, le pant, le sigh, le sigh.

(Yes yes yes, I know. Who cares? None of my celebrity crushes have ever been reciprocated anyway. Did Julianne McNamara marry me after the 1984 Olympics? Does Christina Hendricks know my name? Aren’t there tons of straight women–and some straight men–macking on Ted Allen? It’s the twenty-first century; I have a right to have a small crush on Rachel Maddow!)


MxMo 32: Guilty Pleasures

MxMo logoMan, 32 already, huh. It seems just yesterday that MxMo was finally old enough to drink–soon, MxMo will be old enough to run for president of the U.S. Ain’t that crazy?

Now, the topic of this month’s installment is …


Oh, that’s right, guilty pleasures. Sorry if I zoned out on you there for a moment. I had to run to the kitchen to make sure my Jell-O didn’t burn. I’m prepping a test batch of a Halloween-themed, brain-shaped Melon Fusion Jell-O mold, spiked with Sour Apple Pucker and Absolut Sheboygan.

All right, everything’s gelling up just fine, so it’s time to talk dirrrrrrrrty pleasures.

Except. I don’t really have many anymore. Not to be snahby or anything, we just don’t drink that way for the most part these days. The only thing I feel guilty about is that when we have a second drink before dinner, it’s almost always an Old Fashioned. I get creative for round one and lazy for round two.

That’s not to say I don’t have a history of embarrassing drinks. The first drunk that I can recall was at my eldest cousin’s wedding, in Southern Illinois, in–oh– 1982 or so. I was 14 and obviously underage, but the bartender served me at the reception anyway. My first drunk, I shit you not, was on Tom Collinses. Now, I guess that’s not terribly embarrassing, but they weren’t really Collinses as much as they were gin and Sprite.

Actually, I think that’s exactly what they were: gin and Sprite. And at 14, I wasn’t much of a drinker, so three of those in about an hour kinda messed me up. I went back to the hotel room, read Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, laughed my ass off, and fell asleep, at which point a million-gallon vat of custard upended itself over me without warning.

I proved myself such a man that weekend that my grandparents started plying me with drinks when we’d go visit them. Ah yes, such a gentleman of leisure I was in my high-school days that I developed a taste for the Fuzzy Navel.


I can’t believe this guy gets workAt least he didn’t pick his nose this time

But just because I’m no longer prone to quaffing gin and Sprite while chortling at Marvin’s antics, or sipping a Fuzzy Navel in front of the Rose Bowl parade, doesn’t mean I’m always high-brow when I’m out drinking. When Jen and I were in New York, we went out often with friends, and that normally meant a good dive bar or neighborhood pub. Unless we were in a specialty beer bar, such as D.B.A., I was always happy to go with a humble brew of regional renown.

Yes, East Coasters, behold my favorite party-time beer in New York:

Yuengling Lager

Thanks to Stevi for hosting, and for choosing such a fun topic.