Dan Dunn's The Imbiber

While sitting at my local-local pub recently, I was thinking about some of the old friends that I hadn't seen in awhile.
    I asked the bartender about them by name, and gave a description of the one whose name escaped me for a minute. I was taken aback when I got the response: "Barred for life."

There is no appeal from this sentence, and as drunkard pre-trial motions go, this is a sentence of death. There are a few bars where I live in Portland, Maine that, upon getting tossed off the premises, you might as well quit drinking.

That got me to engaging in my favorite dangerous activity, heavy duty one-handed thinking. While one hand is clenching a PBR in a death grip, I argue out my point with wild gesticulations of the other hand, carefully balancing myself so as not to spill a drop. Arguing on behalf of the accused, I lobby for their safe return to the arms of pre-hangover festivities. The first step, as always, is to determine the extent of the guilt.

"What did that foolish nitwit do this time?"

The bartender was unclear as to the details, only knowing some minor ones. There was a fight involved. That's not unusual here -- our Old Port gets a bit confrontational at closing time. When our new police chief arrived, he expressed shock and said our staggering scene was the "worst he'd ever seen." He came to us from South Central L.A.

From TheOnion.com

Ah, pardon me, milady. May I have a word? I trust you're enjoying tonight's festivities? I should say I am. Nothing stirs the blood quite like an evening of dancing, conversing, and libations, wouldn't you say? My apologies for the confusion; while I'm aware that you have been speaking with the gentleman here, I should let you know that, as he has now imbibed a considerable proportion of my contents, the conversational duties will henceforth fall to yours truly.

I think we've heard quite enough from him by now, anyhow.

I should clarify: You began a conversation with a somewhat charming and erudite man, and now you shall be interacting solely with me, the substance contained within an ordinary bottle of whiskey. The shift is slightly jarring, I'll admit, and perhaps even unsettling. Nevertheless, let me assure you that this is as he intended. By consuming nearly half my contents, he elected to have me act as his proxy in all manner of interpersonal communications.

You'll be getting to know me quite well over the next three hours, or at least until I take over his body in toto and pass out in the nearest chair, whichever comes first. If you care to listen, I believe you'll find many of my anecdotes and opinions fascinating. For example, were you aware that it took him nearly half an hour to drive himself here because the Chinaman in front of him never learned to read a damned speedometer?

Now, now, please—calm yourself. Before you jump to conclusions, know that I am not being deliberately racist. No, that's just the sort of unfiltered "from the hip"—if I can use the vernacular—statements you can expect for the rest of the night. I'll be unearthing many facets of his personality of which he himself was previously unaware, as represented by the aforementioned racially charged remark, a few half-baked political notions, and a long, rambling explanation of why his former romantic partner was so wrong to abandon him despite the fact that he dedicated nearly three years of his life to her and who in the hell was she to imply that he was incapable of loving anyone but himself?

This reminds me, I have also been tasked with undertaking all possible romantic endeavors tonight. Most likely this will occur in the form of an awkward pass; perhaps I'll lean in to brush your hair out of your face but inadvertently poke you in the eye, because I will have control of his motor functions as well.

Have I mentioned that you have great tits?

From TheLiquidMuse.com

In the U.S., the average person uses the term “cocktail” the way they use “champagne," as a blanket, descriptive term to cover a category of beverages.  Most of the "cocktail menus" we see in our favorite lounges and bars are not necessarily made up of true cocktails.  They may be smashes or punches or crustas or daisies or other classifications of mixed drinks.  What the hell am I talking about, you ask?  Well, let’s begin with the definition of a cocktail:

Cocktail = Spirit + Water + Sugar + Bitters

* Spirit:  alcohol of some kind (vodka, gin, whiskey, rum, and so on)
* Water: can be tap or soda water, or in the form of ice
* Sugar: can be granulated sugar, simple syrup, or even a sweet liqueur
* Bitters: can be Angostura (found at any supermarket), or flavored bitters such as Fee’s rhubarb, grapefruit, peach, etc., or traditional Peychaud’s bitters, as used in the classic “Sazerac” cocktail, or even a bitter apertif / digestif such as Averna, Campari, Fernet Branca, etc.

There is so much room for creativity when it comes to designing a new cocktail, just as there is creating a special meal, or painting, or designing the latest ditty to drape over a model on the catwalk.  This creative factor is exactly what attracts so many of us “artsy types” behind the bar. I can wax poetic about my love of Campari, and go on about the myriad of novelties with using flavored bitters.  However, in this post, I want to share a bit about the “elite” bartender’s darling, that little Italian bitter sweetheart called Fernet Branca.

Dispatch from Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic:

I’d like to impart a vital travel tip when visiting the Dominican Republic: while some sections are tourist-friendly, for the most part it’s a desperately poor Third World country with roaming flocks of ultra-violent bandits who would much rather cut out your tongue than sell you a puka-shell necklace. Inadvertently stray too far from your cozy Punta Cana resort after sucking down a couple-twelve Mai Tais, and you could easily find yourself bound and gagged in the trunk of an ‘82 Celica praying someone back home gives enough of a shit about you to fork over ransom money.

Yet aside from the prospect of kidnapping, dismemberment by machete and finding out your family are dicks, the DR is a fabulous place to visit.

First off, about half the players in our National Pastime hail from this diminutive Caribbean island. That alone is reason enough to make the journey. Get an autographed baseball from every athletic-looking kid you meet down here, and odds are there’ll be a future Hall of Famer somewhere in the mix. We’re talking cash-money on eBay, my friends. Which reminds me—go get ‘em, Pepe Ortega! I’m pulling for ya, kid.

Click here to read the rest of the column on Playboy.com