goldschlager

I can't do shots. I just don't have the necessary skills to make that whole shot thing happen. I am so much more of a sipper. And, really, most shots just aren't tasty enough to even consider sipping. Granted, I had my 21st birthday commemorative shot/photo op at Brother's on Campus Corner. I even found my picture on the wall the last time I was in there, and it's been a hell of a long time since I turned 21. And Jules seriously believes, in her heart, that we really ought to do a shot of Jack Daniels when we are out on the town. (She is quite WRONG, though.) Other than that, no shots.

And this isn't a new rule for me. Back when I was much younger and living in New Orleans, I would go out with my friends to a place called Senor Frogs which just happened to be 900km north of Cancun. I know because I read the sign. It was in Metairie and exactly the kind of cheesy early 90s bar/dance club you imagine. I'm sure I have pictures somewhere. And I didn't do shots.

I was young enough that I would wake up for classes, then drag myself to work, then I would go back home to sleep and set my alarm for 2am so I could get up and go out to the bars with my friends until daylight. Most of the tourists were leaving right about the time we would get around to going out. Ridiculous, huh.

I remember this one guy that we would run into quite often at the bars. He was a such complete jerk. He was so not my type. He wasn't tall enough for me. His hair was much too dark for me. He was going to one of the community colleges on the west bank, and he thought was smooth. I don't even remember his name, but, for some reason, I thought about him today.

We never did get along very well; I really wasn't his type, either. But he was a great dancer. I had so much fun dancing with him when we ran into each at the bar. He would buy me drinks. No pressure. Very little talking. And no expectation of anything ever happening between us. Just dancing.

Like I said, he was such a jerk. One night, he decided that I needed a shot. When I finally gave into him, he bought me a shot of goldschlager. Ugh. There is nothing good about that stuff. It tastes sickeningly sweet hot and burns your entire mouth and throat and doesn't stop burning. And it has freaky flakes of gold. Supposedly, that's the selling point. Who knew? It's just horrible. I was so completely done with him after that.

To this day, I associate goldschlager with that stereotypical New Orleans man. Not the ones in the movies. Not the ones with any semblance of a southern accent. But the more greasy, more Jersey sounding, black hair slicked back kind of New Orleans man. They had this swagger and this cadence, and there are still days that I miss that background noise.