Friday night had come and gone — while we’re down at Base Camp playing a really slow show to a really small and uninterested crowd, the guys at the bar are having one of Those Nights — the kind where everyone makes a shitload of money. Meteorite was playing, so I knew they would be packed (I wish that helped explain why we weren’t, at Base Camp, but I don’t think it really offers much of a clue).

One of Those Nights, apparently, also included a throwback to a year ago or so, when full moons were a guarantee that something violent would happen in the bar. Usually, two or three violent things, actually; and so it was with little shock that I learned that not only had I missed out on a nice fat envelope of cash by playing instead of working, but also on (if counts are accurate and fair) four fights.

One of the participants in the night’s festivities invited me to have a shot with him, one to help settle his nerves. I’m far from averse to free shots, mind you — although this one had a string attached. This wasn’t call your own shot, but rather, as he put it, “Something brown.”

So, I’ve missed out on money, live-action human pinball, and now I have to drink whiskey. Fuck.

Brown is the color of dirt, poo, and things that I don’t really want to drink. Double fuck.

I’m talking later with Jason and Garth about whiskey and beer. Garth especially has a tendency to divide alcohol into two categories: whiskey & beer, and all that shit that women drink. I know full well that he doesn’t entirely mean that, as I’ve witnessed him happily drinking just about anything you put in front of him. But still, it irks me, seeing as how I have a tendency to avoid anything in the beer and whiskey families.

In fact, I drink like a girl, I am told repeatedly. For bottles or draught, if there’s no Woodchuck around, I’ll head straight for vodka (usually with Red Bull). For shooting, I prefer Jaeger, though I’ll drink my share of the girlie mixed shots, too — honeydew, Washington Apple, liquid Chronic…

I keep hearing that I need to keep drinking beer until I like it — that beer is an acquired taste. Ditto bourbon, or scotch. But then I wonder: who is it that discovered the concept of an acquired taste? Under what circumstances?

There’s a doomed man walking through the desert, no sign of civilization on the horizon. For days now, he has collected his sweat and urine, eventually growing thirsty enough that he swallows every drop of the foul concoction. And as each day passes, he gradually notices the taste less and less, even coming to crave it…

I don’t think so. And for fuck’s sake, beer and scotch aren’t the only choices out there for anyone, not even a doomed alcoholic at Marty’s.

If I tell you that licking toads is a great high, and then give you the choice between licking toads and eating a tab of tasteless blotter acid, would you still choose the toad? If you knew that it was the same high? What if I made fun of you for taking the girlie way out? Okay, fine, I’ll tell you that it’s an acquired taste…

Fuck you. You would not.

And besides, having watched all of you with your beers and whiskeys, I’ll tell you right now that I can drink any of you under the table any night of the week. As soon as you can hold your alcohol (and by the way, Woodchuck has a higher alcohol content than your pussy Bud Light) better than me, you can make fun of what I drink.

Actually, you can go ahead and make fun of what I drink. I’ll be right beside you, making fun of the girl you’re with. But hey, maybe ugly and overly-talkative is an acquired taste, too?