25 February 2007

Hornitos and Cointreau

When Sonja came home from trying on half the shoes in Steepleton I mixed her up a blender of Strawberry margaritas, 3/4 c. Hornitos, 3/4 c. Cointreau, a pile of frozen Steepleton strawberries; poured myself a double 56.5% Arran's whisky. Not like I measure the whisky I drink - it was probably at least a triple. Then we sat down and watched Taxi Driver on the tv. Sonja said, "You look just like Bobby." That was when the movie was nearly finished, same as the blender. Sonja, like most women, is sweet as Ma Kelly's homemade blueberry pie when she is drinking.

Sweet as Jody Foster looks in her New York whore hot pants in Taxi Driver. Fuck! My tattooist, Tugboat Davey, inked Jody Foster right on her shaved pussy. Some kind of devil shit. That is what I hear anyway. Davey would never just come right out and say anything about tattooing Jody's Hollywood smile. Tugboat Davey is one discreet motherfucker. What the fuck, if I had a shaved beaver I would get the devil tattoo'd on it too.

Seems some people are trying to turn whisky drinking into some sort of art like some wine drinkers make themselves out to be. Piss artists I call them. I learned how to drink whisky with overproof Southern Comfort. I learned I could drink a fair amount of that American treasure so long as it shared my distorted consciousness with some beer. I am hoping my mom brings me back a bottle from her latest escape from the black scratched vinyl Canadian winter. The 35% low grade Southern Comfort they sell in the liquor stores up here is ok - but it is not to be traded with a glass of proper full strength whisky.

I like to drink my whisky in one of my remaining couple of unbroken crystal glasses that have helped me get through thousands of bottles of whisky. (I break a lot of shit.) The ice sounds nice clinking into the empty glass; the pouring whisky silent as one of Willie Picton's skinned, about to be fucked junky whores; filtered water visibly driving the whisky crazy behind the leaden glass.

Sonja is watching Jack Nicholson and doing her nails as she works on her second blender. She never compares me to Jack. He is one motherfucker any man would like to be compared to. Anybody who watched a little football with Hunter is ok by me. I liked Jack in The Trip when it played on late night tv when I was a Canadian teenager wondering just how fucked up of an adult I would one day be. I wondered just about right.

I am not in the nightclub tonight. I am not waiting for a hard rain to wipe the filth off the streets. I am tuned into WDVX-FM and my whisky cup needs replenishing. It's Saturday night, after all, motherfuckers. Drink up, mates. And I will see you in the pub tomorrow for breakfast and the next installment of the good old hockey game.

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