You know, I mock my apartment a lot. It’s fairly mockable. About as mockable as 98 Degrees when they were still on TRL. For one thing, nothing in the apartment sits parallel to sea level. At one time, it may have, but everything’s sorta…well, dipped in a bit. It’s an old apartment, it’s natural to have a touch of bowing, but let’s just say this: if one person in the living room had a marble, and another person on the opposite end of the apartment (the kitchen) were to put marbles on the ground, the twain shall in this case meet somewhere around the middle ground that is the dining room.
We’re chockful of “doors that don’t quite close and/or seal off outside noise and or/air”. Many nice triangles of open space sit comfortably beneath certain doorways, while my closet door has gained a few pounds and refuses to close. An analogy is in order here, I believe. The problem area on my body is my stomach. I run and run, but can’t melt the pounds away. My cheeks are thinner (both sets), my arms are less flabby, but my stomach still retains a touch of gut-tasticness. In the case of my closet door, the problem area lies in the upper right hand corner, which has swelled like Anne Wilson in the ’80.
So, it’s got character. But it’s also got something that I believe no other apartment in Boston has. Maybe even the Northeast. Dare I say it? Perhaps even the western hemisphere. Well, until now, since y’all are gonna wanna be steppin’ to this like Phish fans step to the gravity bong. It’s my own creation, born of extreme ingenuity and a complete lack of anywhere else to put disparate, unrelated things.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: The Liquor and Linen Closet.
Feel free to cue “Also Sprach Zarathustra” right about now.
As Strong Bad would say, check out all its majesty. Need to clean the countertops? You’re covered. Need place mats? Check. Need a shot of Stoli? Coming right up! This does it all. And if you act now, we’ll throw in a 50’ extension cord absolutely free!
I’m telling you, this thing never ceases to amaze. And it had such humble beginnings. Long story short, when The Commander and I moved in during the freakin’ hottest day of 2000, we quickly ran out of precious closet space. Left to put away? Bedding and booze. And lo, inspiration struck on high, and I created this modern-day Frankenstein of storage capacity. Some in the scientific community fear what I wrought that day, but so long as you don’t try to iron after several gin and tonics, or don’t accidental try to do a shot of Draino, you’re pretty safe.
In case you at home were wondering what this closet looks like after one of my nights on the town, this should give you a little idea.
Let’s take a closer look, shelf by shelf, liquor-wise. (Seriously, they never do the liquor cabinets on “Cribs”. Why not? I’d pay good money to see someone’s Old English 800 fridge.)
OK, a fair spectrum of booze represented here. Nothing too top shelf, but nothing too bottom shelf, either. Here’s a good tip: if you can pronounce “curacao” correctly, you’re still sober. A little tip, from me to you. I’m getting a bit claustrophobic looking at this shelf at this angle, actually. Mommy? Why do I even have Grand Marnier? I don’t even know what it is. I think it belongs to my roommate twice removed. I really enjoy not having to find roommates constantly. That rules. My new roommate doesn’t drink, so I know he’ll never steal any of this. That, too, rules.
If this shelf ever looks like it does below, just call the ambulance. You’re completely screwed.
Moving on down, we’ve got Saddam’s lost stash. My own personal weapons of mass destruction…the mass that is my liver, that is.
Good lord. These bottles look like huddled POWs discovered in some god-forsaken military prison. What is WRONG with this closet? How didn’t I know? I need to move, like, now. While we’re here, it’s gotta be said: Chambord is like that friend who tries too hard to look like they have money, but end up looking just skanky. Too much unearned bling. See my boy Stoli? He’s just chillin’. He knows he’s got it going on. No flash. Ditto for by boy Bailey. He’s got my back on nights like, say, last night, where there’s NO HEAT BECAUSE THE APARTMENT’S HEATING SYSTEM IS MORE SCHITZOPHRENIC THAN GOLLUM. Sorry. I didn’t mean to use my big boy voice there.
To sum up, I don’t have a drinking problem.
Seriously. I have a personal policy that prevents me from drinking alone, unless I’ve just been dumped or the Yankees have beaten the Red Sox. Or a Sugar Ray song comes on the radio. Or I see Aaron Carter on “Cribs”. In which cases all rules are off and bottoms up, baby. When hosting parties, I always overbuy, and the beauty about most booze lies in their shelf life, which is reason #432 why booze is better than, say, bread, eggs, or Lil Kim’s career. So I build and build, almost like it’s the liquor-based version of “Risk” and this closet is my version of Eurasia. I hope that joke’s funny, since I’ve never played “Risk”.
If you wanna know my favorite drinks, well…I can’t choose. It’s like picking the favorite child I’ve had out of wedlock…it’s just too difficult. Ha, I’m kidding. (It’s Charlie. Totally Charlie. He kicks major butt.) Vodka plus anything works for me, except say lighter fluid. Thing is, as I get older and ostensibly more mature, my desire for mixed drinks has decreased. Maybe because they are just too damn easy to drink. I’m at a party, just chillin’, chattin’, and before I know it, I’ve had about 10 Jack and Cokes, I’m south of the border, and in someone’s trunk. It’s never pretty.
So, Cape Cods, Stoli and Seven, cosmos, Lemon Drops…all good. Jack and Cokes if you want me to violate parole. We clear?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, “Every Morning” just popped on the radio, so it’s one shot of Bacardi, coming up, courtesy of my faithful Liquor and Linen Closet.
(This entry has been brought to you by the pre-set effects features of the faux-Photoshop program that came with my digital camera, a grant from M.A.D.D., and Billy Dee Williams.)
Posted by Ryan McGee at December 16, 2003 10:01 PM