by Ed Sikov
Craig and Kyle were Splitsville after the Judy Carne fiasco. Their heartbreak was my joy, since I'd been praying to Eros and darker forces since that ghastly night at Rolf's. One bleak night I snuck to the beach, drew a rudimentary pentagram in the sand, lit a "Coconut Creme" scented candle I found in the back of drawer, and spilled goat's blood around it all in a shaky circle – OK, it was canned beef consomme. The hot if equally bogus Eros rituals will go undetailed, other than to say that the body is a wonderful toy. Anyway, Dan had to do some deft rescheduling so Craig and Kyle wouldn't share any more weekends, but after some cajoling of Chipper, he switched around enough housemates to keep Kyle away from Craig, who was sitting in ashes in a sackcloth muumuu from Lane Bryant.
Surprisingly, Robbie stepped up. In fact, he became such a mensch (Yiddish for best dude; antonym of douchebag) that we wondered if he'd been forced into psychopharmacology. Turns out he had. He'd fallen into depression after being fired as news producer for Simonton Austin, the ridiculously closeted CNBC star who we'd all seen either shepherding or purchasing boys in every bar in town. Robbie told Kyle (who blabbed) that Austin groped him in his dressing room after snorting something brown – Robbie didn't know what it was – and Robbie shoved him off. The next morning he found a pink slip on his desk and was out the door within the hour. This was just before the housemates' rent was due, and Kyle paid Robbie's share. Even Robbie couldn't be an arrogant dickhead now that he was living on handouts. The Cymbalta didn't hurt either.
Last Saturday, we were lying around the pool puffing some old-fashioned herb, which freed Robbie to tell some refreshingly self-deprecating stories. His first sexual experience was a catastrophe; at 16, after a swim meet, he got so turned on by one of his teammates in a gang shower that he spontaneously came right in front of the kid, who immediately did the same. His first true love: his film professor at the tiny Quaker college he'd attended. His worst habit: sneaking farts in crowded rooms. (This we already knew.) And my favorite – the inspiration for that evening's cocktail:
Robbie had moved to New York at 22. On his third night in the city he wandered into an Irish bar near his one-bedroom, three-roommates apartment. The bar was a typically skanky dive, but a few slumming preppies counteracted the resident rheumatic drunks. Robbie, clad in a pink gingham sleeveless shirt, pranced to the bar and ordered a daiquiri. The geezer bartender reacted poorly. "You're either under age or a fag," he snarled. "Which is it?" "Fag, sir," Robbie helpfully announced and was promptly thrown out of the bar. This cruel injustice struck us all as hilarious, so much so that I ran to the harbor to buy lime juice and rum.
The Daiquiri
Unless you completely lack self-respect, _do not use frozen concentrate_.
For 1 mid-sized cocktail
3 tablespoon white rum
1 tablespoon lime juice
1 teaspoon superfine sugar or to taste
Put everything in a cocktail shaker filled with ice, shake, and quickly pour into a festive glass. If you do not own festive glassware, get your sorry ass onto eBay and buy some.
