Falling from Grace

Lately, I've been really interested in Magnificent Bastard. I linked to it in my "Neck for Green" post on 12/8. I like their blog for fashion advice, certainly, but also as a good diversion when work gets slow. Aside from direction on sartorial splendor, MB has an entire lifestyle, Artful Dishevelment, in mind. This certainly manifests in alcohol consumption.

(If you're looking for another great blog, one strictly devoted to fashion, I'll suggest The Sartorialist. Special thanks to Kathy for opening my eyes to it.)

I'm not exactly a party animal, but as any twenty something might, I enjoy an adult beverage now and then. During the summer, I'll pay homage to my British blood (Welsh, specifically) and defeat the stifling heat through a powerful concoction of gin mixed with tonic, topped with fresh lime. As the weather has turned, though, I've been less assured. I could always turn to my old friends Stout and Porter, but what is an aspiring Bastard to do when he feels the need for a proper cocktail as the snow comes down? The advice, it turns out, is to call for a Manhattan.

My friend Dan keeps the bar at a great Italian trattoria called Radda here in Boulder, and we've been comparing notes recently on how to prepare a most Magnificent winter drink. Dan suggests mixing your favorite Kentucky whiskey with Carpano Antica sweet vermouth, select bitters, and bourbon soaked cherries. I, in turn, suggest you follow Dan's suggestion. My only addition? Keep your barware and booze safe from harm. I've recently paid a hefty price for my ignorance of this pressing issue.

Forget Copenhagen, health care, or a soaring deficit that will eventually cripple the financial viability of America. The real killer at the end of 2009 is an immutable notion that scientists, such as myself, call gravity. I'll spare you the technicalities and acceleration rates (and save myself countless trips to Wikipedia, er, my expensive collection of scientific texts. Perhaps you've heard of the classic treatise, "High School Biology"?)

Over the past few years, I've been accumulating supplies for a proper bar that any young gentleman could be proud of. Certainly some of these details came in the form of gifts, as was the case for my wine glasses. My father is an aficionado, and I believe took great joy from passing along glasses that would diffuse the subtle aromas of Pinot, Bordeaux, or Nebbiolo. My stepbrother has been kind enough to keep me well stocked with fine gin. I've supplemented with various bottles and other glassware, and most recently, I was given four fantastic low ball old-fashioned glasses that looked perfect with three cubes of ice, and two fingers of liquor. The combination left me one happy Bastard.

To celebrate this final touch, I had Dan to the house on Saturday night for a drink after he finished a shift at the restaurant. I'd been keeping this collection up on a shelf about 15 feet inside the front door as a welcome to any guest. Dan arrived and saw the new glasses, nodded his approval, and we took down the necessary pieces for a great Manhattan. As we sat around catching up, I felt myself almost detach from the conversation in an attitude of contentment. This is exactly the situation I'd hoped would accompany my bar; the facilitation of friendships, and their solidification over good cocktails.

I awoke the next morning having hatched a plan to go climbing with Dan up at the Industrial Wall, our second trip in as many weeks. I was in the kitchen, making breakfast and preparing for my day outside when I noticed the two glasses from the night before, now dry, on a towel near the sink. I returned them to their spot on the top shelf, reaching past the coffee beans, grinder, and tea on the shelf below. I looked at my roommate Brian and told him that I thought the bottom shelf was looking a little haggard.

"We'll be fine if that one falls off the wall, I guess, but if the top one goes, we're hosed."

Some things you can't take back, once uttered. I should have kept my mouth shut. Not more than 5 minutes later, coffee still hot and cereal still crisp against the milk, there was a crash. Not the innocuous clattering of caffeinated beans over tile, or even the shrill clank that our aluminum stove-top espresso maker would have sounded. This was the unmistakable violence of glass. And then, the incredulous silence of two roommates wondering what the hell had just happened.

Damnit. I've been picking up shards of glass for days.