 |
|
 |
  |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
November 8, 2006 |
|
|
Dylan was right. Decades ago he nasally proclaimed, “The times they are a changing.” Back when I wore a younger man’s clothes, we inhabitants of the male world were acutely aware “real men don’t eat quiche.” Years passed and suddenly it was the “metro-sexual” age where males of the species were continually encouraged to not only be in touch with, but also publicly display, their feminine side. Well hello 2006 and a return to the “boys are boys, girls are girls and never the twain” mantra now espoused in the modern day dictum, “Real men don’t drink apple-tini’s.” Once upon a time you were what your wore, today you are what you drink. Those shunning all things alcoholic, male or female, simply find it impossible to comprehend the difficulty this move from the metro-sexual world of margarita’s and mai-tai’s to the “I’ll have a Jack and coke, she’d like a guava-cosmos” society where we now reside. Should you be thinking “what’s the big deal?” keep in mind any red blooded American male, tempted to try some garnished with a paper parasol “foo-foo” libation, runs the risk of finding himself scarred for life. According to Frank Kelly Rich, editor of the Denver based, tongue-in-cheek, Modern Drunkard magazine, in his “86 Rules of Boozing”, “Drink one girly drink in public and you will forever be known as a guy who drinks girly drinks in public.” Talk about pressure. Just one mis-step, or mis-order to be more exact, and you’re forever branded, in whispered tones behind your back, as banana daiquiri kind of guy. Of course, just as with the rest of society, females get a free pass. While any man ordering a pina colada invites the scorn of society to be heaped upon his shoulders, no one thinks twice about ladies downing a vodka martini or a “seven/seven”. A couple of female friends insist their favorite libation is a Manhattan. As with 99 per cent of all Manhattan drinkers, they’re from the Midwest, the drink may be named for a borough of the Big Apple but fans of this vile bourbon and sweet vermouth mixture garnished with a cherry always seem to have spent a fair share of their life within 150 miles of Chicago. Once when caught wrinkling my nose in disgust as she waxed poetically about the charms of her favorite drink my Milwaukee native friend felt no qualms at all telling me, “You’re just not man enough to drink a Manhattan.” Yet should she hear me order a “grasshopper” or “cocoanut rum and diet coke” it’s the topic for what seems to be an evening long conversation about Maynard and his feminine drinking habits. Maybe it’s best to stick with wine. The fruit of the vine isn’t so gender specific. True women seem to prefer whites, men red, but no one looks askance at a fellow and his chardonnay. However, it’s best not to press your luck even with wine. Let a bud hear you order a pinot grigio and you stand an excellent chance of that same friend telling the bartender, “better put a little umbrella in it so he feels comfortable.” Beer’s even easier. Except for Michelob Ultra. The only time I ordered an Ultra, the guy next to me asked if my church choir needed a soprano. |