Somehow I came to inherit, by virtue of being a borderline alcoholic, the liquor of a man I never met in an antique armoire I don’t particularly care for.
My uncle Jack died in the 70s. I never met him and he wasn’t my uncle. Apparently he was a friend of my grandmother. I don’t know anything about him, except that he was born in the 19th century and his house is maybe haunted question mark.
The armoire is old, but crappy and locks, but I don’t have a key.
The booze is shitty. Really shitty. Shitty bourbon, shitty gin, shitty whiskey (four roses! Fuck me no). Shitty white wine called “white wine” in a green painted bottle.
Uncle Jack’s booze is not worth drinking. It is interesting mostly because it is older than me and older than the vast majority of you.
I would not open it, because it sucks and is mostly interesting for having survived 40+ years without being opened, but yet (fie upon but yet! but yet is as a gaolor to bring forth some monstrous malefactor [Shakespeare, bitches]) there are TWO bottles of old Seagrams gin. What is the harm of opening one of two, I ask you, my dears?
Join me as I drink this thing:
A live and drunkblog adventure.
Update 6:56 PM
The stage is set.
The glass is a double walled Bodum filled with ice. We shall drink this straight. Like men. 19th century men. Cowboys? Perhaps. I don’t know Uncle Jack, but I have decided he is a cowboy.
The gin is poured.
It’s vaguely yellow. I thought the bottle was vaguely yellow, but no, it’s the gin. Will yellow gin kill me?
It’s gin. It tastes gin-like. I don’t know if this is the age, but there’s decidedly less burning taste than I am used to from gin. Considering the period, I think only alcoholics were ever supposed to drink this straight. As a mixer, it would be serviceable. Straight? I could see myself lying in a gutter with it.
Tasting notes are:
Gin. Ice cubes. Melted ice cubes. Ice Cube? It was a good day. Somehow there is the slightest taste of death.
This landed on my swing next to me:
Today seems kinda odd
Ice Cube lead to LL Cool J. Gin, however, lead to ginand juice, but I really don’t wanna.
From this, Sir-Mix-Alot cannot be far behind. From that? Biz Markie. God help us all, Oppo, o have opened the 7th seal.
I have ascended time and space. I can feel color.
I have this:
I will triage gin and tonic out of this despite this not being tonic.
I called my mom.
“I’m drinking that alcohol that came from Uncle Jack”
“That old alcohol I have.”
“That’s not from your uncle Jack. That’s from you grandfather. He used to work as a bartender at this Polack bar after work. They gave him a bottle every week.”
“You grandmother loved Seagrams 7.”
“That’s what I’m drinking”
“That’s your grandmother’s alcohol”
Shit got real.
So that lemon thing ended up in my fridge. I thought it was lemon with seltzer. It was not. It was sweet. I know understand death. I will avenge this indignity with better gin.
I poured that hateful shit out and I’m back to straight gin.
The shoes are Italian. I hope they like gin, because a lot has spilled on them.
Is Graham Coxon’s solo in this live recording of Coffee + TV in Japan the best guitar solo ever recorded?
Half a bottle of old gin says “Yes!”
I’m being bitten by mosquitos now that the sun has gone down. They mostly come at night, mostly. Do you get this reference? We’re best friends if you do.
If you haven’t heard Born in Chicago, you should. It’s one of the best blues songs about friends dying in Chicago.
Blues are alright if there’s someone left to play the game
Like many Jews in the throes of alcohol, I have found my way to the blues.
Do I get Blind Willie McTell? No. But he gets me.
This is my world
It’s dark. But there is gin to drink.
The bottle is at 50%. I become philosophical. What is the purpose of life? Is one’s life the sum of experiences? Is drinking old gin with your dog an experience? Yes. Is this life? Probably? What is life if not sort of live blogging drinking old gin.
It’s just me and Nina Simone singing Sinnerman.
I’ve reached the point where this seems profound
“There’s no women in Alaska
There’s no Creoles in Vermont
There’s no Coast of Nebraska
My mother I forgot
Slavic princes without robes
In a teepee we suppose
She would bite you if she could
Insane cobras split the wood”
There’s a moment when you’ve realized you had too much. For me, it’s when I’m like “fuck yeah there’s no Coast of Nebraska!”
There isn’t. But still.