Big news in the literary world this week. The late, great Cormac Mccarthy, one of my favorite writers of all time, had a teenage muse when he was in his early forties. Yeesh. Creepy. The woman has now come out of the woodwork to explain herself and him and swears she was never taken advantage of, in fact, the way the article is written (original here in Vanity Fair) is quite romantic and in her words, Augusta Britt, found him at the right time in her life as a runaway 16 year old living in a motel with a Colt revolver strapped to her hip. The story told is touching, but still quite outlandish and skin crawly considering the whopping age difference, but she would continue to be in his life for forty-seven years and sparked many iterations of herself within the confines of, in my opinion, most of his best books (Suttree, All the Pretty Horses, Cities of the Plain, The Passenger, Stella Maris). To me, most important information contained within the shocking piece is, after meeting her, Mr. McCarthy began writing just a little bit more tenderly, inserting more human, warm characters to star alongside his patented philosophical musings on the human penchant for violence, war, and destruction. She was the light in his darkness.

It makes sense. We have all been infatuated at one point in our lives whether in reciprocation or quiet, heart fluttering distress. Love in its many forms has power. We’re not sure how the hell it happens, but it does, and it’s the one thing, above all other things in this confusing, beautiful world, that makes it all worth living. Otherwise, what’s the point?

If you have lived properly, then you have had your own version of a drunken, Kate Moss in your life somewhere but unlike Cormac, it was probably in your youth. A person flawed but so beautiful in your eyes that all their many flaws and obvious detractions mattered not at all. A fallen angel. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a restaurant person thang because we’re all just a bunch of scallawags. Some regs were perched at the bar last night talking about how they once put their feelers into the “service industry” (what punters call working in places as a bartender, waitress, cook, etc.) and how they viewed it as extremely negative. Well, that’s how I view sitting on my ass working in an office, sucka, so right back at you. You can have your paid holidays and weekends full of annoying tunnel and bridge weirdos and your crowded everything. I’ll take my cynicism at the world and knowledge of the good, hedonistic life instead.

Where was I? Oh, yeah…Our own personal, lovable trainwrecks. We’ve all had one, some of us two or three or four…And it’s altogether possible you were the same to someone at one point yourself. Never thought of that one, did you, smart ass?

Behind the bar, I still have them, muses, but not how you think. Nowadays it’s a regular or couple who comes in who you can perform R&D on. Here, try this, that kind of thing. You trust their opinion and so test out new drinks on them. They, in turn, have to be honest even though they’re getting a freebee.

One of these as of late has been…I guess I’ll call him the Fourth Martinez…He comes in and embodies the three principles of being a good regular:

1. Be quiet
2. Drink a lot
3. Tip well

Every time he is in, he asks for a coffee drink of some sort as his last beverage of the evening. Never does he ever use the dreaded word, espressotini, which makes him all the more endearing. And yes, this is the part where I go into the dark and light of the espressotini, the most annoying of all drinks, but annoying for no reason at all except for the type of person that orders them.

The espressotini embodies all our hopes and dreams and nightmares and fears. It’s both depressant and stimulant, has no acidic edge save from the coffee itself, and its’ only intention, in the immortal words of Kate Moss, are to keep you up, and fuck you up. Maybe that’s why we hate it the most, because of all drinks, aside from a martini or manhattan, it is the most honest whereas something like a vodka soda, hated on an almost equal level for its lack of imagination, is ordered by a person who wants to live a lie.

And here is where I attempt to bring it all together with the espressotini as a metaphor for how to live our life. Yes, we all have our own secret espressotini inside, we just need a Kate Moss to bring it out of us. Right? A booze muse. But it can be whatever and whoever you want it and them to be. A muse doesn’t have to be a young (or old) seductress or whatever, or even a down and out writer clinging to that last remaining scrap of boyish charm…Infatuation takes many many forms. In fact, love and infatuation and collaboration all create the same sort of feeling inside. Bet you didn’t know that.

Anyway…Here’s the latest incarnation…

Espressotini (11/22/24)

1 oz. Reposado Tequila

1 oz. Averna Amaro

1 oz. Whelk

1.5 oz. Coffee (preferably cold brew)

2 Dashes Salted Chocolate Bitters

I dedicate this post to my own personal muse, Jo, the light in my darkness, who I have placed in my writings time and time again and who has also had the patience to read most of what I write despite how the characters that sometimes resemble her can end up in bad, sometimes fatal situations…

This is the AI generated image for this post #411, 11/23/24