drinking

ASTROLIQUOR for Jan. 27 to Feb. 2—What the stars say you should drink!

My Fellow Inebriates,

Here’s your booze horoscope:

Some big changes are happening with your playtime, Aries, but how satisfying those changes are will depend on who you meet this week, and how much money the two of you can pool together for alcohol. Your new friend has a thing for sloe gin and brandy with some lemon and bitters. Go with it, but aim for the cheap stuff—one of your bigger appliances is going to need fixing/replacing this week, and it might be your beer fridge.

Taurus, your computer is acting up. Do you have a savvy friend to help? If not, it’s time to go trawling at the bar for geeks. You know how to find them—they like their martinis with gin and vermouth. Oh wait—you like gin martinis. They like weird stuff like Aperol, so long as you tell them Mr. Spock likes it too. Buy a round and get one of them to fix your computer.

Oh no, Gemini, you’ve stepped on the scale and had a shock this week. If you think the number is too high, make a list of the foods you eat every day. Then cross half of them off and substitute tequila. Worried about vitamins? Add some grapefruit and lime juice, plus a little triple sec. Be careful, though…somebody’s going to be attracted to the new tequila-swilling you. Don’t lend this person money! You’ll never get it back, and he/she won’t buy you any tequila.

Your finances are messed up, Cancer. Time to draw up a budget and find out where all your cash is going. Over the next two weeks you’ll write everything down and even sort your expenses into categories. Good job! Reward yourself by replenishing your liquor cabinet. You’re probably out of Grand Marnier, and you deserve a nice gin as well…say, Broker’s Gin. Friday is big for romance, and the person you pick up that day is the one. Say yes to that tat with his/her initials.

Leo, the memory dropouts are getting to you this week. You’ve lost something particular—something small but meaningful that fails to turn up even when you tear apart your house in a drunken rampage. Finally you’ll replace it, but you’ll still be upset with yourself for blacking out so thoroughly. Self-recrimination like this is unhealthy. Make yourself this chill-out recipe:

  • 2 oz Bacardi 151
  • 1 oz Malibu
  • Pineapple and cranberry juice to taste (I’m having “none”)

Pour the ingredients into an ice-filled Collins glass and stir. There! All better.

This week calls for physical improvement, Virgo, even if you just trade the elevator for the stairs, although you’ll miss the weirdos in the elevator. Somebody at work is going to ask you for a loan, but don’t be fooled by the minor sum requested. It’s a tip-of-the-iceberg, slippery-slope kind of request, meaning this person is going to be on your ass forever if you lend any money this time. Tell him/her you’ve earmarked your wealth for tricking out your bar. Then buy some exotic brandy and pound it with mango juice.

Libras are not always good at seizing the day, and you probably have a list of impulses you’ve been ignoring. Wouldn’t it be nice to visit an unfamiliar bar and meet some strange new people? Go on, it will make you feel truly alive. What other impulses could you satisfy? Don’t even think about it—if you hesitate you’ll miss out! My favorite impulse is this one: Take a half-full bottle of whiskey (not half-empty!) and pour triple sec and lemonade into it. Give it a shake and guzzle the whole thing. That, my Libra friend, is living.

Uh oh, make sure you have a cold compress in the freezer, Scorpio—not just because of your proclivities with alcohol, but because you’ll have one owie after another this week: elbows, toes, you name it. And this is before you mix up that vat of beer, vodka and orange juice and down the whole thing. (About that: use plastic instead of glass because you’re gonna drop it.) It’s really the sort of week that calls for hiding inside. With physical injuries and broken china at every step, you won’t even want to get up. Oh yeah, and your blender might break, so no blender drinks.

Sagittarius, you’ll encounter a hot stranger this week, and your turbulent mating will give you a brief taste of pure joy. At times you’ll feel the two of you share a brain—you’ll be licking creme de cacao off each other and think you’ve met your destiny. And then you’ll suddenly get bored. Luckily you have some distractions, so you won’t get morose. It’s a good career week, and you’ll change gears to work mode without even pausing.

You’re lusting after a Virgo at work, Capricorn. But you’re being a little inept about it. When you try to do this Virgo a good turn, other colleagues will notice and start dissing you for bringing your hormones to work in full force. This is a good lesson in subtlety. Up until this faux pas you’ve thought yourself pretty suave. Turns out you’re not! But it’s not your fault. You messed up because you go to work every day hammered on Malibu.

Aquarius, do NOT make any important decisions this week. No documents, no contract, no selling your house, no getting engaged—nada! Any decision with long-term consequences must be avoided until the stars look upon you more favorably. Even if it means holing up in your apartment and drinking Big Gulp-sized cups of Everclear, Bacardi and Clan MacGregor whisky (with Gatorade for the  electrolytes you’ll inevitably donate later to the toilet), do not—seriously—sign anything.

Pisces, one of your friends has a medical condition that greatly concerns you. It’s affecting your emotional well-being; you can’t concentrate to tie your shoes, and you’re walking around with your underwear inside out (i.e., with visible skid mark). Stop mooning about your friend’s diagnosis—just go and get tested. It’s just chlamydia, but don’t worry; after you finish your antibiotics you can drink some more.

Only a drunk would forget Robbie Burns Day

And I am a drunk.

The day is almost over—a day that did not feature scotch. A bloody travesty! But I mustn’t be bitter. I have some good whisky recommendations:

I’m going to pour some Malibu and pretend it’s a nice scotch while trying to figure out this poem. (I can’t help it! We don’t have any scotch! My parents have no idea how to stock a liquor cabinet.)

“To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough”

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murdering pattle.

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion

Portrait by Alexander Nasmyth, 1787

Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An’ fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

– Robert Burns

SMITHWICK’S ALE—What to buy with that government cheque

My Fellow Inebriates,

It came completely as news to me today that the Canadian government does not and has never had any plans to subsidize my drinking.

My parents were characteristically insensitive about the whole thing.


I was talking about the hundred bucks per child my mum gets each month in the mail. Little did I know, the money in question represents not a small beer fund provided to keep Canadians happy, but in fact the government’s laughable and deliberately blinkered estimate of what monthly child care might cost. The $100-per-child benefit is sent to all Canadian families with a child under 6, to help them “balance work and family life by supporting their child care choices through direct financial support.”

As of January, the cheque has been halved because only one of the kids is under 6.

I just assumed the money was for beer because such a paltry sum couldn’t make more than a 15% dent in child care costs. I figured most parents received the cheque, snickered at it, snickered at the government, then cashed it and headed for the liquor store.

Okay, so it would be a bit of a departure from the norm if my mum took the cheque and bought, say, eight six-packs of SMITHWICK’S ALE. But even if she were willing—how sad it is that, thanks to Miss P attaining 6 years of age, it would cover only eight and not sixteen half-sacks!

My dad has enjoyed SMITHWICK’S for years, although he occasionally opts for GUINNESS instead. My mum doesn’t mind it, and probably gives it a bit more allegiance than it deserves because she has some Irish genes, but finds it less interesting than other ales and a bit too hop-forward than it needs to be.

As you can guess, I love SMITHWICK’S. It pours a nice rich amber with lovely foam and a slightly earthy but mostly malty aroma. On the palate it is crisp and refreshing with a longish, hoppy finish. It’s a bit of a cross-over between a lager and an ale, which makes it perfect all year—refreshing in summer but heavy enough for fireside imbibing in winter.

Once you’ve been drinking SMITHWICK’S for a while, its lingering bittersweetness becomes an acquired taste. It’s true—we’ve had SMITHWICK’S more than any other beer in the house over the years and I do find myself desiring its refreshing hoppiness every single day.

I was only joking when I suggested 6-year-old Miss P should earn some money. She doesn’t even really like doing her homework, and is otherwise such an absurdly happy kid that I wouldn’t want to introduce her to the wicked work force too soon. That and the fact that they don’t hire kids to sweep chimneys any more…because to do so would be demonstrably more archaic than supposing that $100 can buy anything meaningful in the way of child care.

But I do think my mum should get cracking and find a way to replace Miss P’s monthly $100 government largesse so we can stay properly hammered while we’re helping her with her homework.