It’s all you now, Dad

Nothing cures sadness like alcohol, and that’s why my dad needs to stop for some on the way home. If only he would pay attention to my plaintive texts.

It’s not just for me, my fellow inebriates, it’s for my mum. Davy Jones of The Monkees died today of a heart attack at his home in Florida. This is depressing enough, reminding my mum as it does of both his age and hers, but it’s worse because my mum spent her pre-teen years fawning over Davy Jones and fantasizing about a romance with him in her oh-so-distant adult life. Even when she occasionally took a rest from Davy to fantasize about Peter Tork, Davy was mostly it for my mum.

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Being a young bear, I missed The Monkees and didn’t get to experience Davy’s moves on a crappy rabbit-eared TV. I wasn’t there when my mum made such a compelling case to her brother about how dreamy Davy was that her brother conjured up an imaginary friend named Davy Jones and professed his love for him at the dinner table, weirding the whole family out. I’d never even heard him sing Daydream Believer until today, people.

And that’s why I’m guessing my mother is devastated by Davy Jones’s death today. She must be reeling, bereft, inconsolable, abject. Which calls for wine.

So Dad, if you’re reading this, please go and buy some wine. Your woman is suffering and you need to remind her that you’re the main man in her life now.

 

LINDEMAN’S CAWARRA CABERNET MERLOT (2011)—Helping you avoid santorum

My Fellow Inebriates,

Photograph: Charlie Riedel/AP

As a Canadian bear I lack a thorough understanding of American politics and find myself a bit lost as I watch from the Northern sidelines. With all due respect, the US political scene is far more of a freak show than you find up here. The personalities are bigger, more extreme, more misogynistic, more openly devout, and more hatin’ when it comes to perceived sexual deviance. To say it’s interesting is an understatement.

But I don’t know what to do.

I mean, even if I’m Canadian, I want to root for somebody. But the contest seems to feature multiple strains of crazy and not much else. Whatever homophobic freak ends up winning the GOP leadership—I don’t want that guy to keep going and take the whole prize. (It makes me anxious when Stephen Harper has a philosophical bum-buddy in the White House.) So is it smarter to root for the most extreme, most batshit-crazy Republican wingnut in hopes that the US citizenry will slap his ass down? Or is that just dangerous? Is it possible that the most batshit-crazy motherf#cker is in fact what the country wants????!! OMG!

A disclaimer: I honestly don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m (a) a bear, (b) Canadian, and (c) perpetually wasted. I learned about santorum before I learned about Rick Santorum, if that gives you any idea how informed I am, or where I get my information. Some would argue I have no business even peeking at the American process. But what happens to the South matters to the Great White North, especially in the context of our purportedly small-c Conservative majority government. The more freaking weirdos running the circus down there, the more I fear the erosion of (you’d think) basic human entitlements such as medical care up here. Monkey see, monkey do—even if the monkeys in question don’t believe they’re related to monkeys.

What amazes me is how unhindered Rick Santorum has been by his name. Surely most of North America if not the English-speaking world has been exposed to the de facto definition of santorum: “that frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex.” And yet Rick Santorum has surged, has come from behind, has frothed into the political limelight. Does it speak to the openmindedness of America that so many Republicans don’t mind mouthing the word santorum in their prayers to Jesus Christ on his behalf? Or is the Mitt Romney magic-underpants alternative just too weird compared to Santorum’s quotidian women hating and gay bashing?

What’s bizarre to me is the extent to which the battle has revolved around sexuality and reproduction. These crazy fundamentalists have thrown actual politics aside to hammer it out on issues that belong between private citizens in the bedroom. And no mistake about it—the discourse is discriminatory. Basically, if you are a person who, during sex, might perform a blowjob, you are second-class. If you are a woman or a gay man, your private life is very important to Mitt, Rick, and all their f#cked-up cronies. (Lesbians too—no dick action necessary to claim your share of oppression.)

But do they know how to avoid santorum? Not Rick Santorum, whom they apparently like quite a bit, but actual santorum, that frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex? It’s important to know, because even if you are an ultra-conservative whackjob, you might favor the back door occasionally, or at least fantasize about it.

Is it just me, or isn’t politics supposed to be about the regulation of public affairs? Isn’t it supposed to apply mostly to economics and extend to public aspects of law, infrastructure, and international affairs? That’s why politics always seems so boring to kids, right? Because it’s basically too bureaucratic to capture a kid’s attention span. But it’s not just kids who have trouble focusing—adults seem uninterested in the banalities of politics. Better dial up the sex—that way people will tune in to the debates, thinking the debates are the debates when they’re a prurient aside. There’s a whole nation of people who are terrified of homosexuality, nodding their heads as Rick Santorum equates gay relationships with “child rape and dog fucking.” And they will vote for conservative nutjobs.

The important thing is to realize that santorum is not inevitable. If you are doing anal correctly, Dan Savage writes, there needn’t be any fecal frothiness.

So how do you do anal correctly?

I don’t have an operational anus, peeps, so I defer to anal-savvy friends for advice on proper assplay:

  • Know your body. Be aware how it feels inside when you have the all-clear.
  • Be hygienic. Don’t be afraid to probe in the shower.
  • If you’re absolutely worried, have an enema, but don’t overdo it because it will detract from your natural lubrication.
  • Be safe. Use a condom.
  • Use lots of lubrication.
  • Relax. Go slowly.
  • Practice, practice, practice. If you’re hetero-curious about assplay, try a dildo. They come in all sorts of designs and orientations, and for staunch Republicans who’d like to experience Something in the Ass as long as it does not resemble a male penis, it’s as easy as shopping.

BONUS ADVICE! Stay relatively sober. Any kind of sex gets sloppy when you can’t even stand. If you’re a back-door neophyte, you’ll probably want to relax but maintain that all-important body awareness.

Mediocre wines are perfect for attaining this degree of relaxation. The desire to finish a so-so wine is far less acute than with a high-quality wine, so consider purchasing in the $9 range. For instance, you might want to purchase LINDEMAN’S CAWARRA CABERNET MERLOT (2011) to preface your first anal adventure.

Perhaps it’s unfair to judge this very young wine on its current merits, but it’s a little unrefined. We’ve been on a bit of a LINDEMAN’S kick lately because my parents have gone on a strict budget and LINDEMAN’S fits their price point. The product selection is massive, ranging from $8.99 to 12.99 at our government booze shop, and so far each pick has been a good value. This latest cabernet merlot, however, is at the very bottom end of the price range, and it’s apparent.

Billed as “approachable” and “fruity,” LINDEMAN’S CAWARRA CABERNET MERLOT smells yeasty up front with berries behind. It’s medium-bodied, perhaps even a little thin, and somewhat generic—the sort of plonk that would do just fine at a barbeque or party where the focus is on the company, not the wine. The first glass is inoffensive, which is almost surprising at the price point, but unfortunately it’s one of those wines that doesn’t benefit from opening up. Aeration unlocks some unharmonious flavors and, above all, draws attention to the youth of the wine. It might be worth putting it away for half a year to see if it settles.

You might initially feel enamored with LINDEMAN’S CAWARRA CABERNET MERLOT, having acquired it so cheaply and discovered it to be mostly harmless. The second glass is a different, less tasty story, which is what makes this LINDEMAN’S product perfect for first-time anal. Being able to cap the bottle after one glass without too much regret means you’ll reap its relaxing effect without getting wrecked—increasing your chances of non-sloppy anal penetration and decreasing the possibility of santorum appearing.

Not that santorum’s that much of a big deal. I’d much rather have santorum on the bed than Rick Santorum in the bedroom. Wouldn’t you?

What my toilet experiment isn’t

My Fellow Inebriates,

I live for big parties like Mardi Gras, and I’m sad that it’s in the past. The worst part of it, though, is the concomitant idea that now, the Wednesday after, it’s time to behave ourselves. Apparently the big pig-out, love-in, and piss-up shindig was a kind of last hurrah that ushers in 40 traditional days of fasting and penance before Easter. OMG!

Despite having plenty of reasons to feel contrite (i.e., hung over), plus at least one parent who’s schooled in the Lenten ritual, plus a furry liver that’s pleading for a 40-day dry-out period—it just ain’t gonna happen, my fellow inebriates. Mardi Gras may be a fond short-term memory, but bourbon doesn’t have to be.

What is bourbon exactly?

I thought I knew, but it turns out I really didn’t. I tried to find some Canadian bourbon for today’s review. With all the grain in the prairie provinces, I figured we’d be a big producer. But I was wrong. It turns out that, for a grain whiskey to qualify as bourbon, it must:

  • be produced in the United States
  • consist of at least 51% corn alcohol
  • be aged for two years minimum
  • be aged in new oak barrels

I had no idea! This explains why I’ve never seen an Alberta bourbon. And it means the liquor I’ve been distilling in the toilet tank won’t ever legitimately bear the name “bourbon.” If I want to get serious about making my own, I have to move to the US—preferably Kentucky, where the hot-cold seasonal variation is ideal for barrel-aging bourbon, and where limestone water (void of iron, which can turn the bourbon black instead of lovely honey-brown) flows abundantly.

Without barrel aging, bourbon would just be a clear corn-based spirit—harsh and alcoholic. As awesome as that sounds, two to four more years in an American white oak barrel can change that spirit into something darker, softer, and more refined. Four percent of the alcohol evaporates each year (called “the angels’ share”), effectively reducing the bourbon and creating richer, more complex flavors.

My favorite thing about bourbon is the way, when you stick your nose into the glass you’ve just poured, it almost singes your fur off. I bet I’d enjoy that pre-aged bourbon—the pre-bourbon—even if I’d be robbing a few alcoholic angels of their 4 percent per annum. But I love the finished product.

“So that's us: processed corn, walking.” ― Michael Pollan, The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals

I’m not so sure about moving to Kentucky. It sounds friendly there and all, but moving is a big deal, and I have one or two reasons, including Sarah Palin, to fear American life. But who knows? There’s plenty of corn growing everywhere (too much, as Michael Pollan argues in The Omnivore’s Dilemma, detailing the ascent of corn in an agribusiness agenda to push corn into every corner of our lives, if not every bodily orifice), and I found a barrel manufacturer who can supply the new, charred-oak barrels I’d need. And get this—at the bottom of the barrel maker’s web site is a charming little note:

For those of you who believe in man made global warming: When you buy one of our recycled Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey Barrels your [sic] are helping save the environment. By keeping these barrels at home we prevent the thousands of pounds of hydrocarbons that it takes to ship each of these barrels overseas from entering the environment. Hydrocarbons which may contribute to climate change.  Help save the earth, buy a recycled Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey Barrel today!

Isn’t it nice that with Kentucky Barrels you have the convenient option of opting in or out of the consensus held by credible scientists on anthropogenic global warming? Does it get any friendlier than that? Never mind the mind-boggling confession that it takes thousands of pounds of hydrocarbons to ship each barrel overseas.

I can’t wait for my toilet experiment to yield its alcoholic goodness and provide me with the mind-altering non-bourbon product I need in sufficient quantities to bring the ongoing neoconservative attack on science down to a dull roar, if only inside my own head. But at least I don’t have to observe Lent, which means Mardi Gras will continue at LBHQ for the foreseeable future.