Thursday, December 31, 2009
We were out with the Girl From Moscow. A mediocre band was playing and she was dancing upon a riser toward the back of the crowd. She was a much better thing to watch than the band. She’s dark and beautiful. She motioned for a drink. She’s into vodka. Previously I’d explained to her that vodka sucks. You see, the better quality the vodka is, the less character it has. Vodka’s strongest virtue is its anonymity. The ideal vodka is tasteless, and mixes well with anything. Bourbon, on the other hand, has character in spades. Good bourbon should taste like caramel, be smooth and sweet, and go down like fire. It should knock you out like a shot to the head. The devil drinks bourbon, and I’ll drink it with him when I die. I convinced the Girl From Moscow to try Maker’s Mark instead of her weird vodka that I can’t pronounce or spell, which she assures me is very good and comes from some eastern European country that I can’t recall. As the Maker’s passed her lips, it immediately came back out. Quickly and forcefully she spits it back into the glass from whence it came. She looked utterly terrified of what sat in the glass in her hand, and I got a look dirtier than the thoughts I was having of her.