In recent times of recent I have acquired a new job.
Ever since I was about fourteen I’ve been a waiter of one description or another, my first job I worked in a Chinese restaurant the size of a tea-cosy for $25 a night. Now, if I was still working there today I probably would’ve called social services or something for violating minimum wage laws, but getting paid in cash under the counter wasn’t exactly “legal” either.
My new job, which stemmed from waiting on tables at a much nicer, much more wage earning restaurant involves one of my most favouritist of substances; wine. As I’m sure some of the more loyal readers of this site have noticed, many of my stories revolve around alcohol or alcohol-related incidences that usually end up with me on the floor (a.k.a. “cosy makeshift bed”). Admittedly, I am most definitely an alcoholic, but not one of those sad alcoholics that people feel obligated to act piteous towards. No, I’m much more of a jolly alcoholic, causing merriment and joy wherever I stumble (your experiences may differ).
Since I’ve been drinking since I was around
eighteen, my tastes have changed somewhat.
The first night I ever had alcohol was a friend’s
sixteenth twenty-first at a sports and social club. From what I
remember of that night I was given some sickly rum and soft drink combo in a
can that was quite similar to paint stripper mixed with magic acid (this is a
real thing, FSO3HSbF5) from a so-called “friend”. Having never had alcohol before it went
to my head almost immediately and then like the gentleman I pride myself so
highly on being, I proceeded to tell at least eight different girls at the
party that I thought they were attractive. Needless to say, I went home solo.
Many years later, alcohol is now my line of work and there’s something I’ve noticed about it. Marketing guys are paid several jillion dollars a year to come up with catchy names and slogans for things that deep down we know we’re not supposed to buy, like alcohol. Cigarettes are a brilliant example of this; we all know that they’re going to rot you in a horrifically slow fashion from the inside out leaving you look like a prune with fin rot and hepatitic-diabetes by your twenty-third birthday, but people still smoke. Why? Because they’re convinced they look cool doing it and whom do we have to thank for that? Suave marketing guys, that’s who.
I guess this explains Marlboro’s new slogan:
“These tar riddled dry leaf sticks will give you sixteen types of heart disease, but holy shit you look amazing right now.”
The exact same phenomenon applies to wine, but wine has a slight advantage over cigarettes, as it actually does appear genuinely classy to most people. Go to a party and see a guy in a sharply cut suit with a wine glass in his hand? Forget your loving boyfriend of three years; you’re going home with Wine-Suit guy. Show up to the shindig and there’s a girl in a little black dress drinking a fruity lexia? Target acquired. Why? Cos fruity lexia makes you sexier. Fact. Wikipedia that shit if you don’t believe me. But here is where they drop the ball. Wines are like bands, they have to have catchy, memorable names that’ll stick in your mind and they can’t be the same as one another, so they get increasingly stupid (hence bands named “:wumpscut:”, “Wow, Owls!” and my personal favourite: “Test Icicles”. No joke.)
So, there are some incredibly tasty wines out there that I am by no means inclined to go near ever, because like these dickhead bands they have thoroughly repulsive names. “Bloody Stump”, “Lamb to a Slaughter” and “Black Tar” are some fine examples. To honour these lovely labels I’ve devised by own.
A votre sante!