Livin' in a Liberal's Paradise

To all of the left-leaners out there, I may just have found you the perfect storm of pacifism, environmentalism and anti-globalization. September 23-25 in Washington, DC has been officially decreed Left-Wing Heaven (that is, if the term "heaven" didn't suppose a judeo-christian deity, a notion that offends our atheist/Hindu/agnostic/Zorastrian/Buddhist comrades.)

(1) I'll actually have a flat-full of folks coming up for DC Green Festival. I sort my recylables and haul them out to the dumpster (rather than throw them down the rather convenient trash chute), and don't vote for Republicans, I feel like my eco-card is punched, but hey, the world needs its Greenies. Have at it, girls.

(2) The IMF-World Bank meetings are the weekend, so we'll have the anarchists as well as the loony left out protesting those evil Bretton-Woods folks for...trying to advance standards of living in the developing world? (Hey Anarchists: If you don't get the Bretton-Woods reference, you should spend the weekend reading some economics books rather than protesting a system you don't even understand.)

(3) And for those of you who like to return broken merchandise and ask for a full refund, there's a "Get Out of Iraq Now" anti-war march on the Mall.

(4) And while a handful of conservatives actually do read books, I imagine the featured food will be granola and selected scent patchoulli at the 2005 National Book Festival.

Hey, this is part of living in the capital and all, so I can roll with it. But please stand to the right on Metro escalators and don't saunter down the sidewalk 4 abreast, OK?

The Drink That Made an Island Famous

A few years back, as I was wrapping up my last bit of formal education, a friend of mine had come to the National Capital Area on business, and we agreed to meet for drinks and dinner. We met for a cocktail at an outdoor bar in NW DC, and as I ordered some sort of "microbrew", my friend - who, I must say has always exhibited a shade of class and demeanor far above our common roots in a working class borough of Cleveland - ordered an Old Fashioned. Not only had I never seen anyone I know order an Old Fashioned, I'd never even though about ordering one - and was extremely entertained by the various steps our barman endured to produce this time-tested concoction. The vast majority of cocktails that I'd consumed were lazy, recipe-titled swill that I'd ordered when too bloated from a full-day of beer swilling and football watching.

Fortunately, about the same time I was also engaging in an eye opening journey through the delightful, other Celtic spirit, Irish Whisky. Unfortunately for me, several trip to a gastroenterologist convinced me that perhaps this hobby was getting the better of me. Whiskey, I'm afraid, had to wane from my diet, and by the grace of God, vodka happily took its place. And I like vodka, quite a bit actually, but it will never have the complexity and attraction that whiskey does, not matter how many Stolichnaya -club sodas I consume (and trust me, I've tried).

Whiskey, like so many friendships I've managed to maintain over the years, remains like a dear friend who has moved away - always intimates, regardless of the unfortunate, circumstance-induced infrequency of our contact. And there's few things I enjoy more, to this day, than any of the various Bushmills products imported to this country, but I've also felt a need to investigate more local products. Bourbon, a sweet, corn-heavy whiskey so popular here in the States, has never struck my fancy - in fact, I do all I can to avoid it. Our friends and neighbors in Canada produce some rather pleasant whiskey blends, but a bit of research led me to discover that the Canucks are largely impersonating a spirit once common in the liquor cabinets of many North Americans: rye. Yes, rye, that spirit that to most people is an obscure reference in a very long, oddly sweet piece of Americana that's actually the second-best Don McLean song ever written (go download "Vincent" from iTunes if you don't believe this blogger).

Rye, my friends, is a gentle, lovely, dry, delightful, inexpensive piece of America that sparks a bit of nationalism in me that no amount of xenophobic, paranoid political speech could ever hope to inspire. Rye - when, like many American things - is thrown together with a bit of Europe - Italian sweet and/or French dry Vermouth - creates a genuine classic that has entertained men and women on both continents since Winston Churchill's mother allegedly invented it in the 19th century. Like all truly worthwhile works of art, the Manhattan has a dash of bitterness, Angostura seems to be the preferred choice for most fanatics of this tantalizing cocktail. The Manhattan - a drink that so perfectly shares a name with a place distinctly American, yet more like Europe than any other place in these United States. Manhattan, a drink that old men cherish, but bastardized by the few bartender that think they know how to make it - bourbon, my friends, has quite a nice bit of Americana to itself in the Kentucky Derby and the Mint Julep, please leave rye its rightful role as the prime spirit of the Manhattan. The Manhattan, the sweet vermouth rounding our the dry rye, the dash of bitters adding the third, subtle leg to this stool on which I rest the end of my evening, thank you for finding me.

Friends, my stomach only allows me one of these a night, and my glass is empty, plus "Vincent" is about to finish, and now I'm relaxed, satisfied, and sad enough to retire for the evening. Mes amis, boun appetito, and so long.

Multi-Tasking

I'm flipping back between ESPN and ESPN2, both with major league baseball games on, while listening to the Indians radio webcast online, all while simultaneously following the electronic Gamecast of the Yankees-Devil Rays game. Has the media age led us all to be obsessive compulsive freaks, or just me?