One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor
One tequila--First installment of a four part blog on why tequila is the best liquor in the whole frickin' world
The title of today's blog is a quote from the late great George Carlin. Okay, he isn't dead yet. But shouldn't he be? Hasn't he outlived his usefulness? I loved him once, but now I don't: George Carlin, you are dead to me! I would rip my clothes symbolically but I'm not wearing any. Ooooh, live nude girl blogging. A whole new kind of porn.
So today I'm a little slap happy and after sharing this story with my thereapist I have now officially told everyone I know, so it's time to write about it in a blog: why I love tequila. But first, a little inspiration--I think I'll crack my bottle of Corralejo and have just a little afternoon delight to help me write this story.
God that's good. Keerist.
So, like many many others, I am the child of a drunk. My drunk father was a frustrated poet, a dreamer and an adventurer who had been sold a really shitty bill of goods on what it meant to be a man. The end result of his misbegotten notion of manhood was that at 24 he was in the military and shackled to a wife and child (me)--and the child wasn't even his, biologically, but we'll talk about that another day. In addition to all that, he was, I suspect, a spectacular failure at what the military had him doing--he was a computer programmer. He had wanted to be a weatherman when he joined, but it turned out you can't do that if you're color blind, so he was reassigned and started to suck and hate life. When you're stuck and you suck and you hate life, you drink, and my father managed to go through a six pack of beer and a pint of scotch every day.
You might think that this would either make me hate or love alcolohol myself, but I'm lucky, no real addictive yen for alcohol and smart enough to see that drinking was a symptom of my dad's problems, not the cause. But still, I'm not the biggest fan of scotch. My father would start in on that stuff and swill it down in sodden, sullen self-pity that occasionally erupted into a rant about what was wrong with everybody and everything in the world except for himself.
But once, just once, something changed. He got drunk and set off, into a blizzard, heading drunkenly down towards the docks, swearing that he was going to get on a steamship and go to Jamaica. Jamaica! A Neverland where everybody sits stoned on the beaches and there are no snotty officers to telling you what a shitty computer programmer you are and no snotty daughters glowering hatred at you! I watched, peeping through the railings from upstairs, as my father tore out into a snowstorm (after my mother refused to give him the car keys) determined to walk through snow and ice and wind and get to Jamaica.
I cheered. Suddenly this trap of a life that had us all caught had been sprung, and fresh air rushed in. I didn't hate him at that moment--I was exhilarated, giddy, I wanted him to get to Jamaica or die trying. And I secretly harbored great anger at my mother for calling up their friends and organizing a search party to find him, wrestle him into a car and bring him back. Let him go! Let us go! Let's face the future without fear for a change and head off into the night drunk and crazy and bold! And if he dies in a snowstorm, even so, that would be a better life than this sad bleak life held together by duty and obligation.
But, unfortunately, he didn't die. He came back and slept it off and we all went back to frustration, oppression, seething resentment and scotch
My mother's explained my father's change of heart with one terse word: tequila. And for me, a great love affair was born.
To tequila! the drink of madness and possibility, the drink that takes self-pity by the throat and tears out its beating heart. The drink that conquers both fear and logic. Tequila, tequila, I love you.
Next: I tell you all about the bestest drunken night I have ever had! Fueled by tequila, naturally.
Live nude girl signing off--
Cherry on, everyone!
The title of today's blog is a quote from the late great George Carlin. Okay, he isn't dead yet. But shouldn't he be? Hasn't he outlived his usefulness? I loved him once, but now I don't: George Carlin, you are dead to me! I would rip my clothes symbolically but I'm not wearing any. Ooooh, live nude girl blogging. A whole new kind of porn.
So today I'm a little slap happy and after sharing this story with my thereapist I have now officially told everyone I know, so it's time to write about it in a blog: why I love tequila. But first, a little inspiration--I think I'll crack my bottle of Corralejo and have just a little afternoon delight to help me write this story.
God that's good. Keerist.
So, like many many others, I am the child of a drunk. My drunk father was a frustrated poet, a dreamer and an adventurer who had been sold a really shitty bill of goods on what it meant to be a man. The end result of his misbegotten notion of manhood was that at 24 he was in the military and shackled to a wife and child (me)--and the child wasn't even his, biologically, but we'll talk about that another day. In addition to all that, he was, I suspect, a spectacular failure at what the military had him doing--he was a computer programmer. He had wanted to be a weatherman when he joined, but it turned out you can't do that if you're color blind, so he was reassigned and started to suck and hate life. When you're stuck and you suck and you hate life, you drink, and my father managed to go through a six pack of beer and a pint of scotch every day.
You might think that this would either make me hate or love alcolohol myself, but I'm lucky, no real addictive yen for alcohol and smart enough to see that drinking was a symptom of my dad's problems, not the cause. But still, I'm not the biggest fan of scotch. My father would start in on that stuff and swill it down in sodden, sullen self-pity that occasionally erupted into a rant about what was wrong with everybody and everything in the world except for himself.
But once, just once, something changed. He got drunk and set off, into a blizzard, heading drunkenly down towards the docks, swearing that he was going to get on a steamship and go to Jamaica. Jamaica! A Neverland where everybody sits stoned on the beaches and there are no snotty officers to telling you what a shitty computer programmer you are and no snotty daughters glowering hatred at you! I watched, peeping through the railings from upstairs, as my father tore out into a snowstorm (after my mother refused to give him the car keys) determined to walk through snow and ice and wind and get to Jamaica.
I cheered. Suddenly this trap of a life that had us all caught had been sprung, and fresh air rushed in. I didn't hate him at that moment--I was exhilarated, giddy, I wanted him to get to Jamaica or die trying. And I secretly harbored great anger at my mother for calling up their friends and organizing a search party to find him, wrestle him into a car and bring him back. Let him go! Let us go! Let's face the future without fear for a change and head off into the night drunk and crazy and bold! And if he dies in a snowstorm, even so, that would be a better life than this sad bleak life held together by duty and obligation.
But, unfortunately, he didn't die. He came back and slept it off and we all went back to frustration, oppression, seething resentment and scotch
My mother's explained my father's change of heart with one terse word: tequila. And for me, a great love affair was born.
To tequila! the drink of madness and possibility, the drink that takes self-pity by the throat and tears out its beating heart. The drink that conquers both fear and logic. Tequila, tequila, I love you.
Next: I tell you all about the bestest drunken night I have ever had! Fueled by tequila, naturally.
Live nude girl signing off--
Cherry on, everyone!
posted by Cherry Terror @ 3:26 PM
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