By Ed Sikov
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Judy Carne!” Craig roared at Kyle, who shook visibly from the shock. “I can’t believe how, how, how deficient you are in culture – in theater and television and motion picture history,” Craig berated his boyfriend and my not-so-secret heartthrob. Kyle crept away from him. “Don’t you walk out on me when I’m shrieking at you!” Craig shouted. Kyle defiantly ran upstairs; the poor hunklet was sniffling loudly. The bedroom door slammed, and we shivered, each for his own reasons.
“You. Pig.” I said in the Bette voice. “You. Insufferable. Pig.”
“I know, I know. I’ve been really awful to him lately. The sex turned sour about a month ago. I got a bit Greedy-Little-Piggy and demanded stuff he just wasn’t ready for, and when the sex got dull I suddenly recognized his utter ignorance of everything I cared about.” It took a moment before Craig hurriedly added “except for him” as a pathetic footnote.
I was elated. My brain and balls sang together in joyful a capella, but oh-so-silently. I kept my face less emotive than George Washington’s on Mt. Rushmore, but inside I felt like dancing, singing, writhing – performing some demented cross between a Dionysian ritual and a bar mitzvah, all to the triumphant tune of “We’re in the Money.” That and “Hosanna, hey zanna, zanna zanna ho, zanna hey zanna hosanna….”
But as I said, that was inside. Outside I was merely inane: “Craig, really – he’s far too young for ‘Love on a Rooftop,'” I offered.
“_Love on a Rooftop_ my titanic ass!” Craig boomed. “Judy Carne was the ‘Sock it to Me’ girl on ‘Laugh-In’! Don’t you even know that? Am I surrounded by cretins?”
“What’s Japanese for eureka?” I replied just as Dan walked in, fresh from a solo beach walk.
“What? ” Craig cried out in desperation. “You do this all the time. It’s so annoying! You say something completely out of left field that makes no sense in the context of the present discussion.”
“All the time,” Dan agreed. “It’s like being dropped into the middle of Molly Bloom’s stream of consciousness, but without the literary pedigree.”
I ignored them, of course. “The Saketumi. It’s this weekend’s cocktail.”
“Ohhhh-kay, I’ll bite. What’s in it?” Dan asked with icy skepticism.
“Gin and sake in the proportions of a martini. I refuse to call it a Saketini, because those ‘tini rip-offs should be labeled toxic waste and disposed of by the Federal Bureau of Drinks Management. So in honor of Judy Carne – Dan, don’t ask – I’m making Saketumis for them what wants ’em.”
How appropriate the old toast “bottoms up” becomes when the subject is you.
4 parts Beefeater gin or Absolut vodka
1 part dry sake
Fill shaker with ice. Pour liquors in. It just needs to chill – no shaking necessary. Stir, put the lid on, and strain your Saketumi into the proper glass. For a garnish, try a sliver of pickled ginger threaded onto a toothpick.