Adventures in Bartending! Part One: The Martini with Bachelor Dick Shut up, dammit, it's my name.

    This tale begins one lazy afternoon at my pad a few weeks ago. We find me staring intently into the mirror, extruding hardened ribbons of white goo from various clogged pores, and reflecting upon my [life]. Some people find that their best ponderances come upon them while taking a dump, but I've always preferred the smaller joys inherent in popping zits. I believe as long as you're squeezing something snake-like out of a relatively small orifice, it aids in the process of squeezing complex, serpentine thoughts out of your relatively small brain. Which is why I think parents who want their children to grow up to be great philosophers should make baby's first toy a Play-Doh™ Fun Factory®. Of course, most great philosophers die bitter, penniless, and alone, so I'm not sure why any parent would wish this on their offspring. But then, I'm also not sure why any parent would saddle their son with the name Richard, and I understand this still happens with alarming frequency. There are some sick people out there.

    At any rate, we find me popping zits and discussing myself with myself. Myself is saying, "Richard, man, how come you're not getting any? Apart from a slight acne problem that most people outgrew at age twelve, you're reasonably attractive. You make good money, at least as much as most food service engineers. And you're not Gary Coleman. So what's the deal?" Just then a monstrous whitehead burst open, spurting its contents across a two foot span and onto the mirror, and the answer came to me. "Dick, baby," my reflection said, "you've got no game, man… no verve, no panache, no élan. Besides, you use needlessly ostentatious words, and that annoys people."

    My doppelgänger's point was all too true; vocabulary I could do, but style eluded me. There was nothing to be done but consult the tome of ultimate authority on all things stylish, Dancing Disco (Deats, Randy. New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1979.) Opening to page 105, something instantly caught my eye. It was a body-hugging, v-neck striped cotton pullover teamed with white cotton cord pants. And aforementioned garments were being worn by a man holding a martini.

    So there it was. What could be more stylish than inviting a fetching young woman back to my pad, then displaying my vast bartending expertise by whipping together a monster martini? Adorning my own white cotton cords, I hopped into the ol' Dart and took off to obtain supplies.

    My first stop was the local bookseller, where I picked up a shiny, red copy of Mr. Boston's Bartending Guide. Then I shot over to Pier 1 to purchase a pair of official ultra-stylish martini glasses. Most beverages can be thrown into any old Kenny Rogers' Roasters plastic souvenir cup, but for the martini the proper glass is absolutely essential. Something about its smooth, conical appearance makes you seem every bit the worldly ladies' man, as though you're lounging about with an inverted glass breast cupped lovingly in your palm. And this sleek touch of class seems to make any refreshment actually taste better! Indeed, on returning home I wrung out the six-month old kitchen dishwashing sponge into my new glass and floated a fossilized cat turd on top for garnish, and it tasted at least twice as good as it had the previous evening.

    After taking a short break to catch the daily Saved by the Bell rerun (it was the one where Zack tries to attract Kelly's attention with this really cheesy scam, but he ends up getting nothing but an important lesson about just being himself. That's a great episode.), I opened Mr. Boston's, turned immediately to the M's, and read:
 

   Sounded simple enough. I briefly recalled that the last time I attempted to follow a recipe it was for a Cup O' Noodles, and in so-doing I managed to accidentally set several fires and castrate the neighbor's cat. But I was determined to follow through on this quest for style, and my neighbor had a new puppy that was getting to be "about-that-age" anyhow. So, without further trepidation, I ran out to Vons for the remaining supplies then flung myself headlong into the mixing process. Here is how I did it:

1. Dumped a bunch of ice cubes and a goodly amount of gin into the plastic shaker I picked up at Vons. I should note at this point that real martinis are made with gin and only gin. Some will insist that a martini can contain vodka instead, but this is actually a different drink altogether called "Vodka and Vermouth in a Glass with an Olive". Why, even the profoundly retarded and United States Senators are aware that gin is the liquor of champions.



2. Popped the cap off the bottle of Extra Dry Vermouth and waved it once over the shaker. At the store I wasn't sure what the best kind of vermouth was, so I picked up the bottle that said "Gallo", figuring I couldn't go wrong with the esteemed makers of Thunderbird. In fact, the only ingredient I was absolutely sure about was the olive. The olive is a key aesthetic element, for reasons of both appearance and palatability. It is the rounded green nipple to the transparent boob of the martini glass. Furthermore, its tart flavor is the only thing differentiating the martini's taste from that of VCR head-cleaning fluid. I went with a jar of costly-but-pert little numbers, lovingly hand-stuffed with garlic. Bob Martini himself would have been proud.



3. Closed up the shaker and shook it. This is what you do with a shaker, which is why we don't call it a "leave out on the counter to sit-er". At this point I was congratulating myself on a job well done, which of course meant that everything was now about to fall apart.



4. Discovered that, in the course of an hour, I had already somehow misplaced my martini glasses. (I have recently begun to suspect that the massive pile of dirty laundry in my room roams the house while I am away and swallows up various items of importance. I would attempt to recover my possessions, but as the pile is now several times larger than me, I'm afraid to approach it.) Discovered, furthermore, that the only clean glasses in the house were the "very-gently-used" sperm bank sample cups I got at Kobey's Swap Meet for $.10 a pop (SUCH A DEAL!).



5. With the ice in the shaker already half-melted, I was distressed to find that I had nothing with which to strain the mixture. I was all set to use the spaghetti colander that was sitting in the sink, but thought better of it when the symbiotic pasta/fungus colony in the bottom spat at me. Short on time, I finally hit upon the idea of passing the solution through my armpit fur. In retrospect, this is probably where the floating white flakes and fleshy, brownish-blue nubbins originated.



6. Finally, I topped the whole mixture off triumphantly with one of my garlic-stuffed olives. Pity I didn't notice the antenna peeking out of the olive, portending the garlic-loving palmetto bug that had perished within, until I picked it out of my teeth much later in the evening.



7. I drank it. That's what you do with a drink, which is why we don't call it a "pour down the sink".