thefoolish
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Submitted for your approval, one of my most recent works. Enjoy.
A Discussion With an Old Barkeep at the Red Carpet Lounge
You see, this is the depreciation of the martini.
In my parents' generation, and probably yours, as well,
The martini was gin or vodka, along with some vermouth.
White called it the elixir of solitude! Mencken called it
the American invention as perfect as the sonnet.
Well, buh-bye, Shakespeare. You had a good run.
Your generation,
and probably a little of mine,
has muddled it into something
much less,
more diluted,
so easy and frivolous and childish and meaningless.
These green juveniles
have taken a quiet drink
that was meditation
in a cocktail glass,
and warped it, distorted it, perverted it.
They order a glass and knock it back and order another
before the glass even hits the bar.
I ask them what brand
they want in their drink,
but they
say it doesn't matter
to them.
There's an obsession
with something
sweet fruity colorful,
and utterly irrelevant.
When I make these bastardized brews
I feel I can barely call myself a mixologist.
I feel like a pusher
giving people an empty high,
blank
and barren and vain.
I used to reach for the top shelf
when I made a martini.
Now I go for the rail.
Because of you, and maybe me,
the martini's now some sweet monstrosity.
All writing presented herein is solely the property of the author. Any reproduction of the text, in part or in its entirety, without the written consent of the author is expressly forbidden.
A Discussion With an Old Barkeep at the Red Carpet Lounge
You see, this is the depreciation of the martini.
In my parents' generation, and probably yours, as well,
The martini was gin or vodka, along with some vermouth.
White called it the elixir of solitude! Mencken called it
the American invention as perfect as the sonnet.
Well, buh-bye, Shakespeare. You had a good run.
Your generation,
and probably a little of mine,
has muddled it into something
much less,
more diluted,
so easy and frivolous and childish and meaningless.
These green juveniles
have taken a quiet drink
that was meditation
in a cocktail glass,
and warped it, distorted it, perverted it.
They order a glass and knock it back and order another
before the glass even hits the bar.
I ask them what brand
they want in their drink,
but they
say it doesn't matter
to them.
There's an obsession
with something
sweet fruity colorful,
and utterly irrelevant.
When I make these bastardized brews
I feel I can barely call myself a mixologist.
I feel like a pusher
giving people an empty high,
blank
and barren and vain.
I used to reach for the top shelf
when I made a martini.
Now I go for the rail.
Because of you, and maybe me,
the martini's now some sweet monstrosity.
All writing presented herein is solely the property of the author. Any reproduction of the text, in part or in its entirety, without the written consent of the author is expressly forbidden.
