Senior Year, late April/early May
For every man, there is an alcohol that brings back fond memories. And on the other hand, there is always at least one that makes the mind recoil in abject horror at the mere mention of the name. These are the yin and the yang of alcoholism.
Tequila, in spite of some bad hangovers and an assortment of horrific, possibly self-inflicted wounds, always makes me strangely nostalgic for summer and seafood gumbo. Leinie's Original does just about the same thing, especially when paired with strong stain of good weed. There's a black currant liquor from the Czech Republic and Serbian slivovica that always bring to mind fresh spring days.
Any type of cheap vodka falls into the second category, and I can safely say that they have completely ruined my palate for Milwaukee brand Polish Style pickles. In my nightmares, I can see the consonant clusters of the infernal Polish tongue on the label, and remember how I tried to pronounce them in a drunken stupor, giving myself a splitting headache in the process. Cheap vodka makes me think of passing out in the bushes near my dorm, and vomiting in my laundry basket not once, but twice. I remember with great lucidity picking up that cheap, blue basket, sitting my ass down on Ice Dogg's leopard print couch, and waiting for a great inner tide to hurl forth a foul mix of Caeser salad and finely masticated pickles, all smothered in a vodka and stomach acid reduction.
Three, two, one...blast off!
I must note, however, that there is a third category of alcohols so motley, that they defy such crude labeling of black and white. Hell, these bastards aren't even in the gray zone; they're more like off colours, uncomfortable shades with silly names like salmon or fushia, shit that any real man has no clue what the fuck they are. You can't decide that they're soothing or irritating, a really girly colour, or something you could somehow wear without emasculating yourself. If someone gives you a garment in this colour, it probably sits in the back of your closet, silently being devoured by moths because it makes you feel ill at ease.
This is precisely the place that the demon wop occupies. To this day, I'm not sure that it was such a good idea, nor that was it a bad one. I can say it was the drink of the night, and I will never taste it again, as the precise recipe has been long lost, perhaps thankfully so.
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