*insert something poignant here*

Wow.  The first post in a new blog.  I feel required to come up with some sort of apropos metaphor to mark the occasion.  Something about changes or new beginnings.  Alas, I’ve no such energy.  I do tend to enjoy my drink and last night, well…no one could have said I was out of form.  Still plagued by the remnants of this morning's hangover, my muse is not up to snuff.  Waking up to the first substantial snow of the year was an especially nice touch.  Nothing like running a snowblower with a pounding headache.  I think it was Dean Martin who said “I fell sorry for people that don’t drink.  When they get up in the morning, that’s the best they’ll feel all day.

If last night wasn’t notable for the amount of beverages downed, it was for the level of skill demonstrated by a bartender at our second stop.  Or rather the lack of any such skill.  The visit started well.  My favorite local live performer was holding court with his acoustic in the corner…a pleasant surprise.  Additional good news:  the bar, found recently under new management, has acquired NTN trivia boxes.   Joy!,

We take a seat, and a waitress appears as if on cue to get drink orders.  I opt for a Knob Creek bourbon, neat.  She smiles, departs, and shortly returns with three beers and a bourbon on the rocks.  The sweetie stops by five minutes later to check up on us.  I apologize for being difficult, but point out I’d ordered a Knob neat and had been presented with Knob and rocks…he-he, that sounds naughty.  She apologizes and says that’s what she put in, but the bartender must have got mixed up.  Five minutes later she returns with another tumbler, this one thankfully sans ice.  My heart skips a beat when I see that for the inconvenience I’d been repaid with an extreeeeemly generous pour.  That giddy feeling was very short lived.  The mouth-breathing drink slinger had desecrated the bourbon with at least an equal part of water.

Now I’m starting to get pissed.  I flag down the waitress.  She’s obviously beginning to quickly tire of me.  I smile politely; grab her by her pigtails, drag down to my level and scream, “Look!  I want a fucking bourbon neat!  A bourbon straight-up!  All I want is to get some fucking alcohol poured in a glass!  How fucking difficult is that!  It’s not like I ordered a Mojito and a copy of the For Whom the Bell Tolls!  Now get your muffin-topped ass back over to Sally No-stars and make sure she gets it right or I’m going to cram every one of your bodily orifices full of Mozzarella sticks!”

Well, actually I didn’t.  If you’re going to pick fights in bars, you need to be absolutely sober when doing so.  It’s the only remote chance you’ve got for the cops to take your side.  More polite words instead and lo and behold, third time's a charm.

But I ask: In this post-Sex in the City age where the Great Unwashed think three ounces of apple schnapps in a cocktail glass is martini, is it simply too much to ask for a real drink? 

So anyway.  Bottoms up on the first post.