The Lost Week: not enough of it lost to drinking.

[Badfellow]

Some people consider it the posting of every mundane minutiae and action spent next to an open bottle, while others might enjoy reading a small window into a complete stranger's existance at a short investment of time... these are the Drinking Stories. May the tomes not gather too much dust upon these lesser frequented shelves.

A few things transpired, both favorable and otherwise:

December 26th... a fine night. Continuing upon my quest for Guatemalan rums, I picked up a bottle of Zaya 12 year. It didn't sweep me off my feet like Ron Zacapa Centenario 23, but the tamed fire and richly perfumed caramel do not disappoint, and the color... are all Guatemalan rums such a heavenly brown-amber hue?

December 28th... my grandfather Jack passed away in the early morning, unexpectedly, at the age of 75. He was an avid fisherman, hunter and was a prodigious drinker of various whiskeys and Grain Belt beer in his day. He kept his vehicles and his guns the most spotless in the state. We spent most of the day in my grandmother's kitchen, her drinking coffee, the men drinking Bud-Lite over a sack of White Castles, sorting out the arrangements and mulling over the first stages of grief in eerie quiet... reminded once more that we do not, in fact, mourn for the dead.

December 29th... Stomach flu, or something to the effect of dry-heaving at twenty minute intervals for 11 hours straight. Really puts a "cramp" in one's consumption. I shall be a hurtin' and thoroughly useless son-of-a-bitch for at least the next forty-eight hours.

New Years Eve... Attempted a shot of chilled Reyka vodka after negociating down dinner, shortly after 8:00PM. This rekindled feelings of gut quiver and subsequent violent yawning from the day before. Spent midnight in bed, cursing god in my dreams, and likewise slept through all the fireworks and pot-banging.

January 2nd... The funeral. Flasks come out of the woodwork. A single belt of blackberry brandy threatens to send me hurling, but I keep it down and manage a few words in memory. Grief aside, I feel dirty and s*ber.


January 5th... Time to avenge that limp-dick excuse for a New Year. There's a reason why I like to keep a few spare Vicodins on hand, a reason which became abundantly clear as I washed down my bitter buddies with a big breakfast serving of Bailey's and melted posture into the couch. Watching Season 1 of Deadwood on DVD will also encourage you to bump shit up to barrel-proof before lunch, but don't expect to pull off any complete sentances in less that 2 minutes (especially prudent when attempting to order a pizza). Sometime after dark, I am kidnapped by radical pro-inebriation extremists with the BAC Brigade and forced to the Glockenspiel in St. Paul for beer and dinner.

January 6th... Getting back now to that liter of Reyka vodka in the freezer. One must never take for granted their ability to eat and drink; chilled vodka with cornichones, pickled beets, some spicy Caprese salami, a few crusty slices of baugette and, of course, some kick ass mustard... how could one not be solidly content? I leave the house this day only to visit the liquor store. More Reyka. A handle of SJ for any "professionals" that might stop over. A 750 of Hendrick's for when the mood strikes.

January 9th... Re-boozification proceedure complete. Gin/Saliva ratios back at optimum levels. I feel as though I can post here once more.

[Shonus Andronicus]

I've gotten drunk once since a few days before Christmas.

None of this is related to my own volition, understand. But just letting you know that sometimes boozing through the holidays doesn't work. Like my new years--I woke up at 12.09 am, Jan 1, and watched the Twilight Zone for 30 hours.