RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,194
(Scots/Irish, the match)
My eventual taste in bourbon
went from that Knob Hill time,
over the years, to some of the
others. I even had one named
Evan Williams, which was, oddly,
also the name of a Princeton
friend of mine. However, as nice
as a guy he was (is), that brand
of bourbon wasn't much. I can
only thing that - when the
Bourbons ruled whatever they
ruled, this 'drink' became their
house drink and we just kept
naming it 'bourbon.' Sounds
right anyway. I was always, as
you know, fascinated by words.
After Scott, my bourbon drinking
became very minor, but by the
time it was 'over' Maker's Mark
was where it had stopped. It's
funny about hard liquor - when
you're not used to drinking it,
it simply tastes horrid, but once
you're acclimated you start to
notice all those little attributes
of this or that which the brewers
always go on about. I once sold
one of the commemorative Jim
Beam traibn sets online - had to
sell it to an old railroad guy out
in Colorado. It was a nifty, three
car setup, and each of the cars,
(engine, tender, and caboose, in
this case, while nicely emblazoned
with Jim Beam logos and such,
were also carafes or 'holders'
anyway, each, of a good load
of the Jim Beam bourbon
being advertised. as it turned out,
for shipping, I lessened the cost
and the weight greatly by first
here draining the booze from each
car. The guy didn't mind, and I came
away with about 2 750ml bottles
of Jim Beam, poured into empty
Maker's Mark bottles I had around.
-
That Allan fellow, the Scotsman I
wrote of in the previous chapter, he
too liked his 'stuff,' and I figured
well he might. One time we were
at Peter McManus' Tavern, at like
17th Street and 7th Avenue. It was
some sort of wicked Oktoberfest
BS we'd stumbled into. The place
was packed; it was about 8pm, and
outside it was pouring rain. We
jumbled in, already poundingly
drunk from walking, and got a table.
The gamely waitress was done up
in some fraulein Oktoberfest garb,
totally fetching, enticing, and ripe
to the touch as well. That was all
Allan needed. He went for her, and
the considerations of 'how drunk are
we, really?' were cast aside. About
2 hours later, almost already having
become personae non grata, we
stumbled outside, where Allan
collapsed; just drunk-gone out of it,
right out on the rainy sidewalk.
There were 2 others with us, and
we managed to scraep him up and
get him propped up, sitting, against
a nearby building. He was totally
out of it - so the one of us with a
phone called up his 91st Street
girlfriend, Gurinda, who soon
enough came down in a taxi to
retrieve him. We were cracking
up; she was profusely apologetic
and humiliated, but we, in not that
much better shape than he was,
told her not to be silly, it was all
good. As sport about it; we stuffed
him into that cab, and off they
went, back to 91st Street. It was
great fun, and in retrospect, the
re-telling made it, each time, more
fun. One of things about 'alcohol'
is that when you are in it, looking
out, the lens you're using is a
completely different lens from that
normally used, so that things seen
in one way by others are, (if seen
at all), viewed from a different
perspective. It's not always pretty
or jovial, though in this case it was.
The funniest part of it all was that,
historically (you can look this up),
the area/location/corner we were
at had, 200 years previous, been
the location of one of Manhattan's
worst slaughters, when militia-men
opened fire on protesting citizens,
and many died, right there; bullet
ridden locals dying on the street.
(1871, the Orange riots, [there
were two, in close sequence], 60
killed, in the area of 21-25th streets,
and 8th Ave). [See link below].
-
I admit, in the long run of things
this all has nothing to do with
the other - drunkenness versus
militia and insurrection on the
streets - yet, even today, when
I stand in those areas, that old
fury and ghostly presence of
the famed (but forgotten?)
past lingers on and engulfs me.
I can never help myself over
those situations, for to me the
'time' I live in is a mere beggar's
reflection of a greater presence,
and an opening (portal) into
the far more vast worlds that
unfold within consciousness and
creative force. I can never walk
a straight line.
-
The last I knew of Allan, still
living in Princeton Junction,
he'd taken his nice, tidy, Cape
Cod house and enlarged it
greatly (doing it all himself),
adding a second level, and a deck,
etc. - things specified by his wife,
Gurinder - and it all looked
pretty nice. Nothing slip-shod,
the guy was good with both
a hammer and plans too.
These are things I could never
do, and for all that I applaud
such efforts and often scratch
my head over how such men as
these can do things like that. I
think it's a great skill. When I
hang even the simplest picture,
it's either hung crookedly or
upside-down!
-
The other funny thing was that,
with the marriage, Allan needed
to get a car, an auto, his first!
I wanted to explain to him
about this country's drunk-driving
law, in case he was unaware, but
I never got to that point. He seems
OK, and all seems well!
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