Holy cripes, I'm sitting there yesterday at work trying to talk to my big boss - my boss's, boss's, boss's boss. And it's casual but we're in this little confined space, and I'm cracking jokes, and I'm oozing whiskey out of each and every fucking pore. Not bourbon, but scotch.
Here's a hint, drunks: stick to vodka. If you're a scotch drunk, everybody knows. And by "everybody," I mean everybody from West Virginia to Delaware, assuming you're standing in D.C.
Not like I've been getting hammered this week. I've just been getting a bit tipsy.
But man, am I getting old. Averaging 6 ounces of whiskey, 3 ounces of vermouth a night - and okay, I had a beer or two with dinner once or twice - is killing me.
I'm not getting hammered. Let me repeat that. Hammered Jim is Sleepy Jim at the end of a workday.
Nope, just tipsy. And I'm starting to stink of booze.
I can't do this. I have to throttle back.
So I'm swilling 3 ounces of Knob Creek tonight in an effort to taper. Oddly enough, it's good. Better than a cocktail. I'm remembering now why I eased up on beer in my mid-20's and started drinking hard liquor on a night out. It's because I'd drink 2-4 shots total, at the rate of 1 shot per hour - at the most - and go home sober and not bloated out. Straight liquor forces a bit of moderation. The only people who drink whiskey like cowboys in movies are actors in movies who are actually throwing down shots of iced tea. You didn't think that was real, did you?
So I got onto the bourbon sidecar last night and had to pull the abort button. I just didn't have it in me to go any further. This drinking schedule was frickin' punishing, like trying to do three interval sessions in a short training week.
The whiskey this week has been okay. It's those damn sugary liquors that were fucking me up. This Knob is going down just fine...
So I pussed out. I'll admit it that I had to ease up this week. I'm just not that good of a determined drunk, and that shit was destroying me. So we'll continue with the cocktails over the weekend, and I'll go to the 'cross promoter's meeting stinking of bourbon and making people there wonder about my sobriety and sanity. For now... chilling.
And as for this comment to Tuesday night's post:
Now that you're 40% done with your competition, Jim, I really need to question your whole methodology. Comparing a bourbon drink to a whisky(ey) drink each evening is all wrong. You need to expand the brackets so there is a bourbon/rye champ (something with Woodford would be my personal go-to) and a whisky(ey) champ. Then, after a bye-day or two; hold your Slapfight Bowl with a clear head and somewhat less swollen liver to properly judge the champWhat? Are you trying to kill me? Expand the brackets? Jeebus... who do you think I am? A Kennedy?
In the words of R.L. Burnside, I ain't gon' drink no more.
Of course, I ain't gon' drink no less, neither.
So how 'bout some muzak?
Yeah. That's better. That one was for me. This one's appropriate too though.
This one is for all the people on the MABRA listserve going on endlessly about the three foot passing rule.
And this little bit of Eye-Talian (okay, it's Brazilian but the lie seems appropriate in light of the Ricco debacle) country & western is for the folks who know there's no dopin' in MABRA, can't happen here, wouldn't happen here, doesn't matter, we'd only be a laughin' stock to look.
Speaking of dope... This isn't exactly my sentiment, but I got a special request from a guy who calls himself "Cav," for his "bitch Ricco," whatever that means. (NSFW).
Speaking of negativity... the lack of riding, the continuing cold of winter, and the fact that I'm suffering a perpetual whiskey hangover right now has me down. You know what helps with that? Nice music. You've heard of Vivaldi's Four Season's, right? Here's the "Winter" movement. It's kinda pretty. Prettier than the weather right now, that's for sure.
Time to wrap this up. Here ya go.
Have a good weekend. Try to find a ride, kids.