Highlander

I'm mostly not gay at all, as I have alleged time and time again.

Although, I have confessed, more than once, to having a bit of a man crush on Ewan McGregor.  If I were to make movies, and had to cast them, I'd try, more often than not, to cast the broad-grinning Scotsman in each endeavor.

He's a wee bit of a star these days, however, and not cheap or easy to cast.  Therefore, until my theoretical filmmaking career merited the requisite A-lister budget, I'd have to go with a cheaper, yet no-less talented, substitute.  And that would be, naturally, Peter Sarsgaard.

Because, really...

These two...

Were separated at birth.

HOWEVER...

Peter Sarsgaard...

Should never never never be confused with Alexander Skarsgard

Now, until such time that I can cast the grinning Scot, and satiate your never-ending McGregor hanker, All I can do is point you to two fantastic Ewan odysseys on DVD. They are not new, and if you have already sampled them, it's a fine time to return to them this summer.  The Long Way Round, and it's sequel, The long Way Down, both follow Ewan and his buddy Charlie as they take the less-traveled route around the globe on nothing but a pair of motorcycles.

Charming, exhilarating and informative, they are worth your time to watch.

And, since I've been gratuitously pandering to the female ramblers, here are a few more actors I'd like to cast...

Flying Scotsman
1oz sweet vermouth
1oz scotch
1/4 tsp simple syrup
dash bitters
-shake with ice 

Beer Goggles

The taunting has, of course, begun again.  Naturally.  Your bartender is here to take your barbs, but from Mrs. Gin and Tonic?

Already?

And just what is her complaint? What is the crux of her criticism?

She has criticized and scolded me for nothing less than not leading off with enough edgy smut... Not enough good old fashioned G&T T&A.

So.  OK.  Fine.  Back to familiar form we go.

Therefore, let me bend your ear, and lay plain the current grievance of my heart.  What, you may ask, is it these days that confounds me and causes consternation?  It is simply this, what to do with topless bartenders.

Sure, I see the confusion in your eyes.  I see you scanning back, trying to understand what it is that I just wrote.  Topless, yes, we understand that.  Bartender, wait, no, I am not talking about myself.  But the final pieces do not seem to fit.

Mr Gin and Tonic?  Confounded by a topless anything?  Say it ain't so!  Has our daringly-debaucherous icon lost his nerve?

Well, maybe, but that is beside the point.  It's a matter of manners and appropriate eye contact.  In business dealings, whether with high-powered corporate law-babes in high heels, or simply while ordering an egg mc muffin from the girl at the drive through, maintaining eye contact shows respect and keeps the peace.

Sure, there are times when the eye is appropriately appropriated to survey an alternate scene, but those opportunities are few and clearly defined.  And so, we come to the matter of the bar keep, who in an effort to increase tips, shows more of the goods than a bar patron may have bargained for.  To maintain eye contact while placing a drink order may signal an insensitive rejection of the heaving display.  To stare, though, flies in the face of good taste.

Fidgeting, therefore, ensues.  As does stammering, shuffling and mumbling small talk.  Squint.  Look at the time, order the quickest drink possible and inspect the stash of plastic garnish picks while she's pouring...

What to do?  I do not know.  Bikini coffee girls?  Great!  But bartenders?  Let's keep our shirts on.

        
Topless Nun
1/3 oz Peach Schnapps
1/3 oz Bailey's Irish Cream
Few drops - Sambuca
Mix the schnapps and Baileys in a shot glass, 
drip the Sambuca into the middle, making a small nipple-like dot... 

Touch Wood

Words.

Words which once rolled, fluid, effluent, as gin pours from the crystal carafe, roll raggedly now, like rust on the chain, or sand in the eye.  The blogger box, which once framed my nightly ritual, night after night for four and a half years, is familiar yet distant.  Alliteration, it seems, still seeps sleekly from the keys.  

Dita desires to take, yet again, your drink order.  Scarlett is crushing the ice.  Your bartender is back, running his hand along the long wooden bar top.

The wood feels fine, solid, patient.  It's been here all along.

Professionals in this, our automated environs, digitally sanitized, service-oriented, are left, bereft, of the tangible product of their labor.  We have nothing but bare statistics to show what we have wrought.  We must, thus, touch wood, touch life, touch the fiber of creation, and reconnect to the soil.

This place, this potent place of pretentious pandering and foppery, base discourse, and drunken rambling is as wooden and natural as electronic social media allows.

Your bartender surveys the familiar scene.  Old faces may be gone.  New faces are now expected to take their place.  What truths?  What smut? What wicked tales of woe?

Bar's open.  What can I pour ya?