My Fellow Inebriates,
Your booze horoscope is still a mess. I have to admit, dry weekdays are totally getting me down. I can’t even get up in the mornings, never mind figure out what the stars have to say. But finally—the weekend having officially been kicked off—I have a glass of wine in my paw, and the stars are forecasting. (But they are still full of shit.)
Aries, be careful with first impressions this week. It’s fine to be nude at home, but it’s no way to greet new acquaintances. You can stay in touch with your spiritual side without swinging your thing(s) around in public. In fact, you can change mentally. People are starting to recognize depth in you that wasn’t visible before. Could it be that you’re lucid this week? You got it, Aries, you’re this week’s Designated Driver.
Taurus, we all have responsibilities, and lately you’ve been keeping tabs on everybody else’s. Let go of the urge to compare, Taurus—you know other people are often douchebags and they will get away with whatever they can. It doesn’t have anything to do with you and your own objectives. Once you stop monitoring other people, you’ll feel free to go after what you want in life—i.e., Smirnoff with triple sec and Mountain Dew.
Gemini, your week promises to be free of f#ck-ups. If you play a sport, you’ll excel in it. If you go trawling the bars for a hook-up, you’ll find it. You might even get a job this week—but only if you book your interviews for the morning (assuming you can hold off till afternoon to pound that vodka-tequila shot). Life is good.
Cancer, crappy times are finally ending and you can see the light at the end of the tunnel. As you transition to a happier, saner life phase, people will seem more warm and colorful, and sleep will come more easily than it has in months. But life won’t be perfect! Something in your house will break (the stars don’t know what; they are just stupid balls of gas so they can’t be specific). And an Aquarius will be skulking around—maybe even stalking you. Do NOT share your Captain Morgan Tattoo with this person. Pour some Dr. Pepper into it and slam it back alone.
Leo, you’ll espy something beautiful and be overcome with desire. Whether an objet d’art or a pricey Champagne, you’ll insist on having it immediately, with no regard for financial consequences. But you should save some money this week, Leo, because something in your house will go on the fritz. Maybe an appliance, maybe your computer. That’s the thing about the stars; they like to be unspecific so they can say they were right—especially if you take their prediction as license to go apeshit-drunk in your house and wreck something.
You’ll encounter a stranger this week, Virgo, but a combination of peach schnapps, amaretto, Southern Comfort, and apple schnapps will ensure the two of you do not remain strangers. And the plot will thicken as you discover mutual acquaintances, enmeshing you in a prematurely complicated relationship. Who knows—maybe the two of you are even long-lost siblings? (Ew.) Your new involvement will keep your thoughts occupied all week, and maybe that’s a good thing.
Libra, you’ve got nuthin’ going on this week. The stars have literally nothing to say about your chart—nothing out of whack, no nutjob stalkers, no strangers stepping into your steamy shower. For some people a
boring calm week is a comfort. For you…? Oh, for crying out loud, at least mix yourself a bizarre cocktail. Blend this up with two cups of ice:
- 3 oz creme de menthe
- 3 oz cinnamon schnapps
- 2 oz cream
- 20 of those little cinnamon hearts that hurt your tongue
Memory lane reaches out this week, Scorpio, especially if you are over 40 years old. Whatever age you felt best at, you’ll behave accordingly. And if you’re a young Scorpio with no drunken good times yet racked up, why not bust out this week? Either way, a lot of Scorpios will get involved in feats of immaturity this week. Mellow out afterwards with equal parts Kahlua, Bailey’s, and Frangelico (unless your drunken activities land you in jail, in which case…I once saw this movie in which a character made Merlot in the toilet, so you probably can too).
Sagittarius, negotiations look excellent this week, especially for big-ticket loans like mortgages. Don’t be afraid! You can make the payments, although you may have to settle for cheaper gin and whiskey. The stars see you sitting on your new porch drinking a Bud and telling yourself you like it. That’s awesome! It’s the North American dream. And you’ll have lots of friends too, but you must remember to phone them.
If you’re having a tough week, Capricorn, you should consider telling a stranger about it. There’s no sense laying all your shit on a friend or relative; find somebody on the subway and tell them all about your hemorrhoids. Then again, you could see a doctor, but a medical professional might tell you to lay off the Scotch. And for a final piece of astrological randomness…buy someone some flowers.
Aquarius, a nagging problem has started to seem insurmountable. Even when you read about global misfortunes in the newspaper, you still feel whiny and sorry for yourself. Perhaps you need a bizarre sexual adventure; these can be great distractions, and they tend to dovetail nicely with Cointreau and triple sec. Post the pics on FB.
Pisces, you’ll realize suddenly that you have been pretending—who knows for how long? Check yourself out in the mirror and look at all the things that have happened to you. OMG, was that bit there before? What about that pendulous thing? What is it exactly? Realizations such as these are the bane of the sober mind. The antidote is a tub of Sangria, so find some crappy Cab and throw a bunch of brandy and fruit into it. Or hell, just drink the wine.
My parents have been hinting that I should brush my teeth.
Thus was my mother shamed into making a batch of whisky balls. Creeping on my Facebook page, she saw my tattle to Christine and decided there were worse things she could do with half a cup of Wisers.
Scary and I were both involved, satisfying related motivations of gluttony and hedonism. He accidentally got himself punched in the nose by the pastry blender—luckily not the motorized kind or he’d have had no nose left.
“Is that Irish cream?” Miss V asked as Mum poured the whisky.
“Close,” said Mum.
By the time she’s six, V will be able to distinguish vodka from gin from 30 paces, unless Child Services gets her first. “Can I smell?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Mum.
“Mmmmmm,” said my little kindergartner friend. “But they’re just for grown-ups, right?”
“That means I can have two peanut butter cookies instead then.”
No such negotiation had taken place, but who could argue with such lawyerly logic?
This is how we ended up making our whisky balls:
- Two-thirds of an overbaked marble cake we’d forgotten about in the freezer, bashed into crumbs with a pastry blender
- Some pecans, also bashed
- Some milk chocolate chips, melted with a tablespoon of whisky and two tablespoons of corn syrup (the recipe called for three, but we were affected by The Omnivore’s Dilemma, so we used only two)
- ½ cup icing sugar, more or less
- ¼ cup cocoa plus some that fell on the counter
- ½ cup whisky minus the tbsp cooked with the chocolate
From somewhere Mum produced a melon baller, used it, cursed it, and abandoned it, then hand-rolled a bunch of cute little balls.
It was immediately apparent we hadn’t used enough Wisers; fresh whisky balls should set your fur on fire their first day, and these were only slightly redolent. Then again, maybe the smell lacked intensity simply because we’d used a cleaner spirit than rum.
Nah…they needed more booze. But it would have been foolish to use more; we need that Wisers for drinking.
Meanwhile the neighborhood has gone apeshit with Christmas decorations. Light shows, sleighs, Santas, Grinches, Scrooges, Bumbles, Rudolphs—you name it and its inflatable likeness is swaying in one of our neighbors’ yards (and lying flaccid on the lawn in the morning, when the kids actually pass by).
Amid all this relatively secular mayhem is a house with a large manger scene out front—Mary and Joseph gazing downward at the infant Jesus, who looks freaking cold in his loincloth. Speaking of Child Services, such nudity may be comfortable in the Middle East, but Langley is at latitude 49.10348. Holy or not, that kid needs some swaddling clothes.
That aside, I felt bad when the family came home from school today and mentioned they’d seen a police officer visiting the owner of that house. We have no idea why, but my first guess would be that someone messed with the nativity display and the owner called the police. Which makes me sad, because obviously, if you’re going to put an overtly religious scene in your yard, it means something to you. And it’s really not cool for someone to vandalize it.
Then again, my guess about the police visit could be totally off-base. Maybe the manger-scene dude called the police about the light show across the street from him, which features so much nutjob ornamentation that the owners must need to rent a storage locker during off-season. A giant Grinch, a family of snowpeople, a hundred candy canes, gingerbread men, all blazing with lights. We can only hope they turn it off before midnight so the neighbors can sleep without having flashbacks of sordid motel overnighters. I could picture a war breaking out between these two neighbors. Maybe Manger Dude asked North-Pole Dude to tone it down a little. Maybe North-Pole Dude ran across the road and put a flashing, sequined baby blanket on the Savior. Who knows? Maybe this has been going on for 20 years. One thing’s for sure—the new LBHQ is situated in interesting territory.
Scary and I can’t get at our balls right now, so we’re staring out the window psychoanalyzing the neighbors. Between us is a HOPARAZZI lager from Parallel 49, a curious choice on the part of my dad, especially with winter so close. (Scary says winter won’t come, ever.) My dad never buys IPA for its own sake. It might ride along in a sampler pack, but generally he doesn’t like a fierce hop shitkicking, and neither does my mum. Dad makes an exception when the hop factor is nuanced and citrusy, as it is in HOPARAZZI. Pale gold and sparkling with fizz, the Pacific West Coast hops’ berserker potential is mitigated by crystal malt, resulting in a well-behaved almost-IPA with an incredibly full mouthfeel and refreshing summery kick. Weighing in at 6% alcohol and 50 IBU, HOPARAZZI isn’t a misnomer; to enjoy it, you have to like hops, although you might not like all hops brewed by all breweries. HOPARAZZI doesn’t kick your ass with hops—it just taunts you a little. Sort of like hanging out with Scary all day when he’s too hungry to make a hostile move.
He is talking apocalypse, though, and with only 16 days remaining, his current theory is volcanism. Yes, my fellow inebriates, Scary figures we’re overdue for a cataclysmic eruption like the one that happened in India 65 million years ago, busting out a quarter-million cubic miles of lava and wiping us out the way he says it did the dinosaurs. The amount of chlorine-bearing compounds unleashed on the ozone layer will turn our little blue marble into a hothouse. We’ll need refreshments. Better stock up on HOPARAZZI.