6 posts tagged “gin”

What is the worst date you've ever been on?

Oh, that's pretty easy, although I don't know if I can do it justice here.

I met this guy online (of course, right?).  I don't remember exactly how--he was the roommate of someone I was chatting with or something, and I mentioned that I have a thing for gin and C.C. Lemon, and I guess this roommate was walking by and saw that or something and also had a thing for gin and C.C. Lemon and thought we were, oh, cosmically joined or something by our trashy tastes in cocktails.  (By the way, this was when I lived in Japan.  I hadn't lived there long when this happened, just a few months.)

The dude's name was Hiroshi, I think, and he could speak some English, and we ended up chatting on the phone, and I agreed to go up to, eh, Kanagawa-ken to meet him.  Somewhere in Kanagawa-ken.  Doesn't matter because he was from Yokosuka and had--and he totally did not warn me of this before we met--morphed into one of these gaijin wannabes from being around the American military guys all the time.  Feck.  So, we meet there and he gives me a cute little necklace, and we're talking and he seems alright, and I ask what he had in mind for the evening's activities...and he says he wants to...go.......to....ROPPONGI.

Double feck.

I hate Roppongi.  I have always hated Roppongi.  For those of you who don't know Tokyo or haven't heard of Roppongi already, Roppongi is where all the foreigners (gaijin) go to party and where all the gaijin-wannabe-Japanese and all the Japanese girls who really want a non-Japanese boyfriend (for hybrid vigor!) go as well to be around all the foreigners.  Now, unfortunately, the foreigners who find their way to Japan have several general characteristics.  For one thing, they seem to be mostly men, although I have no stats to back that up--just how it seems.  They seem also to be either military men or basement-geeks who are in Japan primarily because of their fascination with anime, manga, vidya games, and the extremely realistic Japanese girls who populate those things (the Roppongi-goers seem to be mostly of the military genre mixed with some of the financial hacks who are over there working in big corporate offices).  In other words, they are incredibly obnoxious people, by and large.  This is less true of the Canadians who go there, but the Americans and Australians you tend to meet there suck.  It's nothing against Australians--just the ones who go to Roppongi.

OK, so off to Roppongi we went.  He clearly wanted to demonstrate his encyclopedic knowledge of Roppongi to me, so first we went to this English-style sports bar (or maybe pub--I'm not really sure what the difference is supposed to be) for some eats and drinks and...television watching.  There was rugby on the TV, and he spoke not a goddamned word to me the entire time we were there.  Fortunately, the Guinness was good and the meat pie was good, and AND we met one of his boisterous foreign friends, an Aussie or Brit (can't remember--sorry!--but he had an accent, which Americans, as we all know, do not) who talked my bloody ear off.  At least he was funny. 

And then *sigh* he hauled me over to Bar, Isn't It?  If there is a bar that embodies the worst of Roppongi--well, actually that would probably be Gas Panic, but second worst (and second most popular, or so I hear, after Gas Panic) it is Bar Isn't It?  Nnnnnngggggghhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa.  How the frustration wells inside of me, even now, at the thought of that bar.  Anyway, I decided that the only thing to do with this was get really fucking drunk, and I set out to do so post haste.  Turns out Hiroshi didn't dance.  There really isn't any other reason to be in Bar Isn't It?  It's not like it's got some kind of spectacular atmosphere or something.  So he just stood along the wall and drank and watched.  Finally, after zero conversation and zero dancing with him, I just went out and danced by myself. 

When I did that, I nearly instantly had a flock of Japanese guys at my beck and call.  One of them I guess got too close, Hiroshi got jealous and started storming out of the place.  So, you know, fuck him.  But also fuck Bar, Isn't It.  I left, behind him.  Game over.  Except...

Then things got kind of awesome.

I was out walking around on the street by myself, wondering if the night was salvageable, when lo! what do my eyes behold?  A staggering group of Canadian dudes (recognizable by the assorted maple leaf gear and hockey insignia--also, the "aboot" thing)!  And for some reason, we started talking.  I told them my story of woe and they adopted me.  I tagged along with them to this bar...oh, god, I wish I could remember the name or location of this bar, because it was one of the awesomest bars I've ever been in.  I'm thinking, judging by the men in dark suits and sunglasses hanging around looking threatening that it was a yakuza bar, but I'm OK with the yakuza*.  If it was a yakuza bar, I'm glad I didn't have to pay for my drinks, because I've heard those are expensive, but these Canadians were unafraid of spending their money on me.  Anyway, I remember, in addition to the threatening guys with sunglasses, cushy chairs done in pink shag (oh, yesssss) and a sex room.  Seriously.  Or, at least, it looked like a sex room since it was mainly futons on platforms, covered in animal prints, and there were, like, people having sex in there.  I didn't, and neither did any of the Canadians because we just don't do that in North America.  Ha. 

We were there for a couple of hours, and we ended up getting kind of run out of there.  It was just getting light at this time.  It seems to me there was some kind of scuffle between one of the Canadians and one of the threatening yakuza-looking guys.  Whatever.  I was drunk and impressed by the pink shag. 

So, the Canadians then huckled me over to either the Hard Rock Cafe or somewhere near the Hard Rock.  My memory is not clear.  I remember that we at least saw the Hard Rock then, because I was telling them how it was the first time I'd ever seen a Hard Rock Cafe, which was true and they were all, "But then how can you be American?  You're not American!"  We passed the early hours of the morning trying to get passably sober, eating and drinking coffee, and, um, talking about the 2000 election and NAFTA.  Hahahaha.  Sexy!

Yeah, so that was the worst date of my life.  It actually turned out fun, but that had nothing to do with the guy I was supposed to be on a date with.  The poser.  Feh. 

*I am not OK, however, with the way Uma Thurman pronounces this word in Kill Bill volumes 1 and 2.  WTF, Uma?  No speech coach? 

And by the way, this is what I think a "charmed life" is.  When I'm stuck in Tokyo, Canucks will come along to rescue me.  I can enter a yakuza bar and come out unscathed.  And I'll get to see a real live Hard Rock Cafe. 

You guys might want to stay away.  Apparently, by merely breathing on you, I could intoxicate you.  Check it:

Damn.  I knew I was a drunkard, but this could potentially be serious. 

Ha.  I am just now reminded of the time when I was sitting in a bar in Kabukicho, Tokyo, surrounded by three guys (two Japanese, one African) buying me drinks, and I just started yelling, "Yopparai!  Yopparai!" (which means "Drunk! Drunk!") at the very top of my lungs.  There was not a single person who did not stare at me, but most of them just muttered something like, "Crazy gaijin" and sniggered and went back to their business.  It was shochu that night.  So, yeah, you might not want to let me breathe on you.  This could be contagious and/or harmful to your liver.

It's too bad I couldn't have come out Malacca Gin, though, because I am not the RumBaby.  That's someone else.

Take it here.

If a waiter stopped by right now to take your order, what cocktail or drink are you having?

Why stop at just one?  It's Friday, and that means it's time for a 5ive.

Tonight's drink order:

1.  Gimlet.  With gin, please, none of that nancyman vodka.  I like a 3:1 ratio, if you don't mind.

2.  Tom Collins.  Lovely.  Again, if you dare suggest to me a poseur Collins featuring vodka, I will suckerpunch you. 

3.  How about a rum and tonic for a change?  Yes, lime--lime makes everything better.  *slurp*

4.  Ooh, now it's time to break out the Campari.  Let's go with a drink I call the GinBaby:  an ounce of gin (the good gin, thanks), an ounce of Campari, top it off with tonic water and a lemon slice.  Gracias y muchos besos all around.

5.  Jeshush, I need a beer.  Or, have you any lambic?  No?  OK, then, hefeweizen.  Oh, what the hell, go ahead and throw the lemon slice in there--I'm in a good mood.

I may now need a shot of -brisk!- Akvavit to wake me up.  It is, after all, the very water of life.

RE:  #4.  Does that combination actually have a name?  I know it is akin to a negroni, but not.  I used to get it all the time in a friend's bar in Numazu, Japan, and there they hadn't heard of it, so they just started calling it after me.  It's good, though. 

Lately I've been drinking a drink I'm calling "The Babysitter."  It's Jones Pure Cane Soda Lemon Drop (which tastes just like CC Lemon, a drink I completely adore) mixed with a Campari-esque liqueur I made from mountain ash berries up in Alaska.  I don't measure--I just pour until it looks a pleasing color and then drink.  Sweet and sour and bitter, all at the same time.  If you dusted the rim with salt, it'd be a treat for the entire tongue.  I used to drink gin-and-CC Lemon a lot in Japan, too.  But I'm guessing that the esoteric nature of these ingredients would flummox your average waiter.  The above listed 5 drinks will do nicely. 

Hop to it if you want your tip, handsome.

Well, it appears the thirst for trivia about the GinBaby is unquenchable.  People can't get enough of me.

Which is to say, however immodestly, that I've been tagged by the good Kirk with the 7-or-8 Things About You meme.  I hadn't yet met this version, but I had previously done the 5 Things No One Knows About You.  I will paste that into the body of this post so that you can learn all there is to know about me without so much as having to click a link.  Awesome, I know.

I've been having to give this some thought.  For one thing, as previously mentioned, my two very best friends read this.  Itchy Dawg has known me since I was 19; sgazzetti has known me since we were in grad school together.  They have seen me in a lot of stages, with many different colors of hair.  There is very little about me that they do not know.  For anyone else who might be reading, the challenge is coming up with 5 more things (in addition to the 5 I listed before, as, according to Kirk, there are rules about these memes that they don't count for a full 5) that no one really knows about me that are also interesting.  As it happens, I had actually listed far more than 5 things the last time I did this, so you are, in effect, going to get a sort of blizzard of new, potentially incriminating information about me.  I know, I know--it's probably going to be a thrill a minute.

First, the previous post:

I got tagged with that damn "5 things no one knows about you" meme.  You know the one.  I think I am probably the last person in the world to have been tagged with that.  It's going to be a bit difficult, because my two oldest and dearest friends in the universe both read this blog, and I don't think there is much they don't know about me.  But I shall give it the old college try.

1.  For many years, until I was well into high school, I absolutely refused to use the word "cool" to describe anything other than the temperature.  I thought people sounded like ass saying everything was "cool" all the time, and I similarly thought that any word that wanted to be so cool as 'cool' could not also be used by my mom.  Sigh.  Somewhere along the line, I gave up my ideals and sold my vocabulary downstream, no doubt for a case of wine coolers.

2.  Let's see.  I was in FFA, as in the Future Farmers of America, for three years.  I participated in many FFA events, including soil judging and meat judging (wink, wink, snicker, snicker).  I was never much good at soil judging, because, honestly, I am completely spatially unaware and thus unable to determine the angle of slope of any given piece of land.  It was vexing, that whole "slope" business, as if you can't farm on a hill!  I did well at meat judging (ahem!).  This was also the era in which I raised pigs (and then, yes, sold them to people who would kill them and devour their fatty bellies--made a tidy little profit doing that).

3.  I have a weakness for murder mysteries.  I am especially fond of Agatha Christie (oh, Hercule!  my love!), Dick Francis, and Ian Rankin.  I don't look at the end to find out who did it, but I do try to figure it out on my own, and a writer can really only earn my respect if I can't figure it out.  But those three write so well, I reread their books many times, even when I know who did it. 

4.  I have long had a serious Monkees fixation.  I know not how I succumbed to the affliction, though Nick at Nite had a lot to do with it, along with little supervision and long hours of insomnia.  You don't know schizophrenia until you have listened to Hank Williams, The Monkees, and Helmet all in one sitting, as I have.

5.  The year I was 12 we lived in Albuquerque.  It was the most terrifying year of my life.  To illustrate:  One day I woke up to find that our entire apartment complex was spattered with blood.  There were pools of blood that had not yet dried all around and broken glass and blood on the walls.  It turns out some guy on some drug had gone around punching out windows and just let himself bleed everywhere.  Still freaky.  And it colored my nightmares (and insomnia) for years.  That was also the year some guy probably tried to abduct me.  I say probably because I didn't get in the car with him.  He was creepy all around, and so I would barely even look at him, but in the few glances I stole, I noticed that he was...oh, no, let's not talk about it, shall we?  Shall we just say--if you're sensitive, forego reading this part--that I was confused about why he would be urinating on himself, but I was more confused that the urine was white.  For these reasons, among others (someone also tried to carjack my grandma, who awesomely refused to move at all, sitting through several red lights and finally making the guy too nervous, so he jumped out), I will never live in Albuquerque again, not ever, not for any reason.  I try my best not even to set foot in Albuquerque. 

There are probably other things.  I am, for example, completely anal retentive about matching my clothes and always have been.  I have no wisdom teeth (and no cavities in all my 32 years!).  I have had insomnia and nightmares since I can remember, although Albuquerque didn't help.  I have touched a real mummy, actually more than one.  I know the proper method for skinning a deer.  My IQ is apparently nearly twice my state's average.  I know how to weld.  When I was 2 years old or so, I cut the top of one of my fingers off; the same year, I hurled myself out of the car into oncoming Phoenix traffic, an act for which I still blame my mother (and, hey, thank goodness for car seats). 

Hmmm.  Fascinating, isn't it? 

Alright, well, that is a lot of fascinating information.  Well played, GinBaby.  God, I don't know why I'm being such a pompous ass tonight.  Forgive me, I beg of you.

So, for the next 5 things, I have been racking my brain.  I'll have a go at it, though.

1.  My favorite Beatles song is "Here Comes the Sun."  It's so simple and clear and perfect.  It was the alarm ringtone on my cell in Japan, although it was a version played on the shamisen.  It was a good thing to wake up to.

2.  In my youth, I read several seafaring novels (Moby Dick, Mutiny on the Bounty, etc.) and developed a secret and urgent fear of scurvy.  Just eat your oranges, people.

3.  I have a habit of listening to the same CD over and over again for a week or two before finally moving on to another one.  Right now, it's XTC's Skylarking, despite my irritation at the Colin Moulding songs.  My husband is annoyed by this habit, incidentally.

4.  I think Cary Grant is the epitomy of a gentleman and everything men should aspire to be.  So smooth, so charming.  Such great posture.  Ironically, I recently found out (thanks, again, Wikipedia) that my distant relative, Randolph Scott (he's my great-grandmother's cousin or something--my great-grandmother also went to Hollywood and was in a couple of movies and dated Errol Flynn and people like that before coming down with a mysterious and terrible disease, a disease found only in 100 women in the same hospital in southern California, a disease that they told her was polio that was quite demonstrably not polio, a disease that kept her bedridden for years, which just goes to show that southern Cali is eeeevil--but I digress) was possibly Cary Grant's lover.  Rock on Randolph--excellent taste!

5.  My favorite gin is Tanqueray Malacca, and I am constantly vexed that it is no longer made.  When we went to Malacca, I was also irked that they didn't have it available--it should have been flowing from the goddamn fire hydrants in Malacca.  I have made my peace with Malacca, the lovely town, but not with Tanqueray.  What is up, you fools?  That was the best widely available gin ever, and you stopped making it.  (I have heard of some boutique gins that are better, but I have not tasted them, as they are not readily available, so for the time being, I am just stuck Malacca-less and grumpy.)  I suppose a 6th thing you didn't know about me is that I actually prefer the spelling Melaka, but I am pretty sure the gin is 'Malacca.'  Imperialist fools.

How did you pick your Vox name? Does it mean something? 
Submitted by LeendaDLL.  

Wait for it! 

It means I like gin.  And I have a baby. 

I picked it because I thought it sounded kool, and I try so hard to be kool.

Another great reason to love gin:  I have just learned that juniper berries are known to cleanse the kidneys and liver.  So, by drinking gin, you're undoing the damage to your liver that the alcohol is doing.  Awesome.  Think I'll have another.  You in?