The Transporter Couch

Sunday my mother is having a party.

I remember being a little boy in the arms of the maid when my parents would leave for parties, and my mother was a creation in red lipstick and powder. It’s not exactly that way, anymore. Lipstck colors change.

But she’s HAVING the party this time and she’s on extra-alert.

I think people should remember their college days when they have parties. I can’t imagine mom in college. I suspect it was all very formal.

INTERMISSION: what’s up with powder, anyway?

OK so, she’s got this party happening and I just don’t know where I fit in except to be the bartender. But am I “this is Brian, he’ll attend to your drinks?” or “this is our son, Brian, who pretends to write, and if you’re nice to him he might pour you a drink”; or “this is my son, Brian, the unemployed bartender who will see to your needs?” or “get me a scotch and soda.” I guess time will tell.

The party is for “the new neighbors.” I’ve never met them. Evidently, I will. Zeo can’t come, which is sort of alarming. Shit fire! his name as “Zeo” is so ingrained in me I can’t recall his actual name though it’s something like James or John. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. My own father’s name is James, though he goes by Jim, or Jaime. Or “Massa Walker!” Depends on the help.

Errrr…. yes, so the new neighbors mom says are quite intereseting people. And there are ….. well let’s see…. 4 sets of new neighbors. Not like they swooped in. Rather they congregated and everything’s settled down. I note that the Joneses were NOT on the list. This after the last time mom invited them to a party and they were too aloof to appear. Their loss. And quite literally, they are the Joneses. Catch up, bitches! You don’t keep up with the Joneses anymore. You keep up with the Walkers.

Seriously, it hurt mom’s feelings when the Joneses politely but firmly declined to attend her Christmas party two years ago. And they’re people of substance and can do what they want and go where they want, when they want; but they live ACROSS THE STREET and mom took it personally that they wouldn’t come to her party because it was just the local riffraff. Or so she perceived it. Anyway, she got over it pretty quickly and it was a NICE party and no one missed the Joneses.

That actually was a nice party. There were about 50 people there. Kitty came and decorated, but couldn’t stay. But Anne was here and I held my own. There was plenty of food and plenty of wine and everyone who came had a good time. This party sounds equally exciting. Probably more like 30 people. A little more intimate. And mom’s got her shit together with the menu but still I have to be the bartender. I guess my role in life is sealed *sigh*.

Art is my partner in crime in this blog. It was he who put the bee in my bonnet and he who encouraged me to get into it. In some sense I owe him my life.

I met him in college. At St. John’s there are “core” groups. Classes are very small but in any given semester you will have four or five people who are in all your classes. Art was in my freshman core group. We didn’t click at first because I was kind of preppy and he was an anarchist. Yay! Then one day a couple of weeks into school, actually it was at night, I walked into the Peterson Student Center, sort of heading to my mailbox, and he was sitting on this bench, and I said hi and he said hi, and…….. I sat down and we talked for three hours.

How does that happen? We had nothing in common except that we were both prone to sarcasm. We’d come from completely different parts of the country, had had completely different upbringings. I disparaged his politics and he disparaged my pretentions. But by and by he taught me some things about politics and the ways of the world, and I taught him how to make a martini, and we’re best friends. I was his best man. Twice. Maybe one day he’ll get to be mine. Should it ever come to that, he’ll certainly be offered the job.

In a way it’s kind of weird. Art is married and has kids and respectability and while he PROBABLY doesn’t vote Republican, he does vote and he’s established and stable. I, on the other hand, well I DO vote but I’m sort of an anarchist. Interesting how things change.

Last night I went with the Cuvee Contingency to the Hill Country Food & Wine Festival Main Event. Actually something is happening today that is the true main event but last night’s affair was a big, sweet party. It was a lot of fun.

We drept our table in a curtain we pilfered from the restaurant andset up beautiful flowers and stylish wine bottles (a double magnum of this, a magnum of that, and a Nebuchadnezzar of that), which left very little serving room, which was the perfect amount of space for our shrimp ceviche on water crackers.

Jordan outdid himself behind the counter! Good kid. Nice kid! It would probably piss him off to hear me call him a kid but I mean he’s a 16 year old young man. And he works. Responsible, forward thinking, kind, polite. He was the “chef” in the chef’s coat and he assembled the wares that Len and I plied to the unassuming masses. On the way over to Austin I had a chance to engage Jordan and he can hold his own. AND AND!!! When we went to Central Market to pick out last minute flowers, he had thoughts! There is, truly, great hope for this boy! I don’t mean he’s swishy! He’s not. Not even remotely. Just, you know, picking out flowers is delicate work that requires confidence and assertiveness and he ….. asserted his opnion. GOOD!

The function was nice. Nice people. Nice crowd. Got to meet Kitty Crider, the food writer for the Austin American Statesman. That was a first. Met lots of people. It’s an expensive venue so you have to be careful. Half the people are in awe and half the people are pretentious. Either way, I can work em. We brought waaay too much food but you never know and it’s good to be prepared.

We were serving this nice little shrimp ceviche on a little cushion of avocado mousse, on water crackers, and with a mango chutney atop. It was nice. It was really popular. And the young woman on one side was seerving vodka and folks on the other side were serving Riesling. It was perfect.

After the event, Len and I went to Cedar Street, which used to be one of my all time favorite hangouts. There were 750 million people there and it wasn’t comfortable. I said to Len the instant we got there, “if we get separated, I’ll meet you RIGHT HERE at 1 AM” but we didn’t get separated. We just sort of huddled. It was that JAM packed. But truth be told we were tired anyway and it was time to come home. Len drove. Thank god.

Then in the alley behind Cuvee, my comeuppance. I decided I’d kick a box, and in the process fell down like a drunk old man. I’m swimming in cardboard at 2 AM and hoping no one saw this happen. I rectify myself just in time. Len came out to examine the commotion but I don’t think he saw me lying on my face in his garbage. Alas! Salvation!

I’ve managed to endear myself with the folks at Cuvee. (Hmm, endear with? endear to? whatever) I mean, we all are friends now and so I was lucky to get invited to a party last night at the proprietor’s house.

Now I have to set this up properly. Carolyn Walls died. God rest her soul. (And I understand it was a hard hard death.) And I got that news exactly three minutes after I accepted the invitation to come over Monday night for fajitas. And in the ensuing fray of my weekend I FORGOT the party invitation. Carolyn was not really a friend but she was my friend Carla’s sister and out of respect and deference I went to the viewing yesterday afternoon. And there, I ran into Hilda. And Hilda, who is one of the most beautiful women in the world, is quite shy, and she sort of clung to me. So after we left the funeral home we went DIRECTLY across the street to Lincoln Street and consumed Moscato d’Asti. Quite a bit of it. And then Hilda said, “aren’t you going to a party tonight?” And I thought, “SHIT! Yes I’m supposed to go to a party!

Well two glasses of Moscato d’Asti do not make Brian drunk, but I was certainly lit up. Hilda and I left the funeral home at about 5 and then went to have a drink and we sat in the “front living room” at Lincoln Street, which was once upon a time a house. Lincoln Street is, first and foremost, comfortable. We sat in the front living room and I closed the doors so it was quiet and we both had a little cry and then we talked about many things and Shawn came in and refreshed our glasses and shut the door behind him, and then we laughed about stuff and it was the perfect counterpoint to viewing a dead friend. So I was actually in a pretty good mood.

And then I went to Len’s house, and driving there I got lost…. .LOST in a podunk town! But I found my way, and suddenly it was a party.

Present were: Sheila and her boyfriend Terry, Jen and her boyfriend Matt, Julie and Lance (married), Sherry, Len, and myself. We were the singles threesome. Len’s wife and daughter are out of town so he was only tangentially single.

At some point I was talking sort of across the room to Terry about driving fast cars. It was a GUY moment and I was enjoying it, but busy doing that I missed some larger conversation about “juicy tits.” That became a recurring theme of the overall conversation last night.

There was lots of food! AND… AND!!! I drank about 483 margaritas. I think that was where I was ultimately going with this post. I feel like shit. I haven’t even summoned the courage to look at myself in the mirror. I’ve walked past one eleven times and just don’t look. I know WHERE my car is but more important than where it IS is where it IS NOT, which is….. here. And I have to go to a funeral in 2.5 hours and it’s raining and I feel like shit and loook like shit and don’t really want to go. Maybe I should blow it off. Maybe I should send an elaborate wreath and a condolence card. Maybe I should muster the troops and put myself together. Maybe I should have breakfast …… .no….. well maybe some watermelon.

The party last night was sort of a double party. Sherry is going to Australia for a month and leaves in about a week. So it was a bon voyage party for her. And I turned 40 in December and ….. well that being the holiday season and all those folks being busy, no one took notice of it. So it was sort of a birthday party for me. It was sweet. It was nice. It was alcoholic. We ran out of lime juice so Jen and Sheila went to the store to get some and came back with this helium birthday balloon (that if you touch in the right place makes noise, not unlike some people I know) and some watermelon, which I had been craving. That was extra sweet of them, no pun intended! But I haven’t dived into the watermelon yet. Nice watermelon, all cut up and seedless and in a little container!

The balloon is sort of creepy. It reminds me of Terrence Stamp. It’s pretty big …. biscuit shaped, about 18 inches in diameter and 6 inches thick, metallic, helium-filled (it’s on the ceiling now) and metallic in color. It says “BLOWS YOUR MIND! ANOTHER BIRTHDAY!” and depicts a blue face wearing weird glasses with confetti exploding out of his brain. And did I mention it sings?

My complete and total incapacity to focus this post is sort of annoying, to me at least. The wages of sin …. as they say… is death. I’ve never understood that subject/verb disagreement though it was at some point explained to me. Anyway, all it indicates is that I’m hung over, and pretty majorly.

Have a nice day

I had wood this morning. Not like that doesn’t happen but it just would NOT go DOWN! It was, frankly, a nuisance. I had things to do! Places to go! People to see! I had to pee, for god’s sake and HOW DO YOU DO THAT when your unit’s at attention? I kept waiting and waiting but there it was staring at me with it’s single little eye. It rained all night. Maybe that’s why.

I suppose I could have worse problems.

I’ve mentioned that I work on Friday and Saturday nights at a liquor store. I love the people I work with, but that’s another story. The truth is I worked for 7 years as a bartender, so when I’m out on the floor I engage the customers with some serious aplomb. I’m not afraid to tell them what to do with different liquors and what NOT to do with different liquors. And with different concoctions.

I’ve never been lame enough to call myself a “mixologist,” but I do have a couple of suggestions worthy of the general public.

1. Craft your drink with love. If you’re doing it at home, the company will wait for you to make one drink at a time. If you’re in a bar…. company won’t wait, but focus on your mixture. And good customers (unless you work in a titty bar) WILL wait a moment or so. And if you love your product they will too, and they will love you, and will tip you. And we all love money And if they don’t appreciate your labors, fuck ‘em. That’s what I say.

2. If it’s to be shaken, shake it. I cannot stress this enough. The whole “shaken not stirred” thing was popularized by the James Bond character. It disrupted the notion that a martini would be “bruised” by being shaken. Well the whole notion that martinis can be this way or that is very annoying to me but there are a couple of clear facts. Most everyone likes his martini COLD. And some people like them so cold that ice crystals are afloat…. not ice CUBES….. just a film of crystal. But gone, GONE is the day when some housewife prepares a pitcher of “martinis” (for it isn’t a martini til it’s in the glass with its garnish) and leaves it in the icebox while she finishes her meatloaf. Cold drinks are now largely enjoyed in bars. And for your martini to be COLD, it has to be shaken, not stirred, with ice.

And of course the whole 50s thing when they would shake cocktails in white jackets….. the shaking took on an entertainment value.

Martinis, Margaritas, Manhattans…… Shake the FOOL out of ‘em.

Whiskey Sours, Amaretto Sours, shake ‘em up.

One thing that shaking does is to make things cold, that’s for sure. But shaken drinks served on the rocks, by ALL means shake them WITH the ice. It breaks up and recombines the flavors into the “cocktail.”