A Perfect Martini

For the past 13 days I have been enjoying one of the simple pleasures of life. The Martini! Only one per day; that’s what I had promised my daughter if she would be so kind to procure a bottle of Gordon’s Gin for me.

My daughter doesn’t really like me drinking Gin; she says that I get strange, at least stranger than my normal strangeness. Plus she mentions that I have the tendency to fall when trying to rise from a chair when I drink a Gin Martini. This phenomenon has only happened to me twice in the past 9 years; but unfortunately she was present at both times.

Some say that Gin is an acquired taste (as is any liquor or malt beverage coming from the British Isles), but I liked it the first time that I drank it, with tonic, when I was stationed in Africa. The Eritrean Bartender at the Service Club said that it was good for me; the quinine in the tonic water helped to prevent malaria. He explained, therefore the more that I drank the better it was for me; it would be good for my health. I bought into his theory because I wanted to drink more gin and tonics. Besides it was a plausible explanation.

I drank my first Martini at the Officers Club on Fort Meade, Maryland in 1969. I wanted to appear sophisticated and everyone who drank a Martini in the movies was stylish and sophisticated. I was at the club on my first date with a charming young lady that I had met the week before.

I ordered a Martini and she ordered a rum and coke. The bartender asked if I wanted it up or on the rocks, shaken or stirred and if I wanted an Olive or a Twist. I remember that James Bond drank his shaken and served up, so I ordered it shaken and up with both an Olive and Twist.

The first sip that I took nearly gagged me; how could anyone drink this concoction? My date asked if she could take a sip, I, of course, said yes and she took a sip. The look on her face was what I was feeling inside but afraid to show openly. I asked her if anything was wrong and she replied “How can you drink that horrible thing?” Nine months later she married me anyway; probably because I had switched back to gin and tonic.

In 1976 I went to a bar with my friend Les, who was a regular patron at this particular bar. Les' drink of choice was a martini, on the rocks with a twist. He didn’t have to order his drink because the bartender knew exactly what he wanted.

I watched the bartender prepare his Martini. First he put the Vermouth into the glass and swirled it around and then dumped it out. Next he rimmed the glass with a lemon twist, dropped it into the glass and iced the glass. Then he filled the iced glass with Beefeater Gin.

On the next round I ordered a Martini telling the bartender “The same as you made for Les, but make mine up and with both an Olive and a twist.” This time I enjoyed my Martini. Les told me that the key to a good Martini was to use as little Vermouth as possible. He was right!

Two years later, my favorite bartender, Bob and I created what I called the Perfect Martini (he called it George’s Special). 2 and ½ ounces of Gin (Gordon’s) and ½ oz of Vodka (Smirnoff) chilled on ice in a glass shaker (until the shaker frosted over) and then gently stirred. A splash of Noillly Prat Dry Vermouth and a dash of Bols Orange Curacao were poured into an up glass. Then ice was placed into the glass to chill it. The ice and liquid were then disposed of and the Gin was then poured into the glass (using a Julep strainer) and was garnished with both an Olive (Queen Size sans pimento) and a twist of lemon (the zest flavored the rim of the glass).

About 6 years ago, with a young (23 or 24) enchanting female friend, I went to a Martini and Cigar Bar in Tampa, Florida. This place had a list of more than 30 different Martinis with only 3 or 4 made with Gin. Prices ranged from $9 to $24 for a Martini. The crowd was young; in fact the guy sitting next to me was in his late 30’s and probably the second oldest person in the Bar.

My companion ordered a Stoli Cosmopolitan with Grand Marnier instead of Cointreau.
(Aside: this drink was invented in an Annapolis, Maryland Bar and Restaurant named McGarvey’s, by a bartender named Bill, for McGarvey’s owner Mike Ashford and his good friend and sailing buddy Walter Cronkite).

Then I explained to the bartender how I wanted my Martini prepared. I was going to play the stump the young blonde bartender game. She smiled and said that the bar only carried top shelve Gins (I chose Bombay Sapphire), and only had Marie Brizard Curacao, they did however carry my Noilly Prat Dry Vermouth (as well as several other brands). I was impressed (with her knowledge and her cleavage) as I watched her make the second best Martini that I have ever had in my life. It was close to perfect.

Our check for two drinks was $32 (and this is in Florida, not New York City). I left the young lady bartender a $20 tip and thanked her for making my day.

The Beach Bum

Fireworks

Last night, at dusk, I left the relative safety of “the Shed” and relocated to the Pool Deck to watch several neighbors’ fireworks displays. It seems that they compete between themselves to see who can garner the most oohs and aahs from the other neighbors.

In 2006, my daughter and son-in-law participated in this neighborhood event; spending more than $300 on fireworks. Their display couldn’t even come close to the competitive neighbors’ displays (costing $500 to $750).

All day long I heard firecrackers and M80’s being shot off. Our dogs are not too fond of this type of noise and barked continually during the day. At times their barking drowned out the sound of the distant fireworks. Bang Bang Bang and Woof Woof Woof simultaneously.

The neighbors on the street behind our house were also shooting off fireworks (their displays were not worth watching), in fact, it seemed like everybody within a quarter mile radius of the house had some sort of fireworks.

After the “competitive neighbors” finished their pyrotechnical show, I remained on the Pool Deck to finish my evening cocktail. I could still hear the sounds of other fireworks going off throughout the neighborhood.

The sulfurous aroma of gun powder permeated the air.

I closed my eyes and used my imagination. With your eyes closed, it allows your other senses to be heighten.

The acrid smell of gun powder was now more prevalent. The distant sounds of fireworks reminded me of mortar fire, rifle shots, automatic weapon barrages and grenades exploding. One sound reminded me of the small Howitzer, at Fort Meade, that was shot off every night at Taps.

After five minutes I began to daydream and vividly saw American soldiers fighting in a war. I though that I heard them screaming and yelling (but it was just the neighbors across the street partying). The smell, the sounds and the muffled voices became all too real. It was like taking a trip on LSD. Maybe I was having a flashback.

Therefore, I immediately opened my eyes and returned back to “the Shed”; turned on the television with the volume up loud enough to drown out the noises of the continuing fireworks outside.

While in the Army, I fortunately never saw any combat. But on occasion, I dream about fighting in a War (probably from watching too many War Movies), and these are not pleasant dreams.

Bring our troops home!

The Beach Bum

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

It has been raining here in my part of “sunny Florida” for the past 5 days. It’s not like our summer rains which last about an hour on a daily basis; it’s an on and off all day affair. Rain is a good thing at this time of year, especially since we had an extremely dry March and April.

For years I was a very deep sleeper (I have slept through an earthquake that dislodged me from my bunk). In fact, my cousin “The Admiral” once said that anyone that could snore (I also have sleep apnea) as loud as I did and not wake himself up must be a very sound sleeper. Our “Captain” had this same ability; he slept through his snoring as well as mine. When you are in close quarters on a boat the nasal sounds of sleep seem to be magnified.

I am no longer a deep sleeper. I’ve always had a hard time falling asleep, but in the old days once I went down; I was down for the count. I use alcohol (a carbon molecule away from the gas Ether) to lull me into that never-never land. For the most part it works and is a lot less expensive and more pleasurable than taking Ambien (Zolpidem – see I actually pay attention to the commercials on television) on a nightly basis.

Every morning, shortly after daybreak, I awaken to the singing, chirpings and squawking of the birds that habituate the trees in our back yard. Not to mention the raucous noises emanating from our neighbor’s rookery (at least his tropical bird collection wait until mid-morning to start to annoy me).

Now I have new aggravating noises because of our recent rainfall.

It took me two additional Vodka drinks and an extra hour to fall asleep last night. I can’t blame this one on the birds; they were all sleeping as I should have been. I blame it on the rain.

Thunder or the pitter patter of rainfall doesn’t stop me from sleeping. These are normal noises to which I have grown accustomed. It’s the damn croaking frogs.

They start their singing shortly before midnight and continue until dawn (probably to keep the predator birds awake all night). Actually they are mating. The male frog sings to attract the female. As water is their source of life, the five days of rain gives them a lot of areas in which to procreate.

Unfortunately they are not baritones and basses like the Budweiser Frogs; they are all tenors or altos.

The mating ritual will last for a few more days and then I'll return to my bitching about the birds. At least I’ll drink less Vodka and get more sleep.

The Beach Bum

Leave it to Granny

I recently read a story about a couple that lived about four miles from my daughter’s house (where I currently reside). The man is 21 years old, but the article did give the age of his wife.

The article stated that for the past six months, “He and his family (I assume that there is a child involved otherwise they would have written "he and his wife")” had been living in his wife’s grandmother’s home. He was arrested for cultivating Marijuana, after the grandmother called the Police about some “suspicious tomato plants growing in a large box” in her garage. She had gone to check the garage because her electric bills had been “significantly higher” during the past few months.

She must have really hated her grandson-in-law. Either that or she spent her life living in a plastic bubble. Even my Dad, who died in 2004 at the age of 89, knew what a marijuana plant looked like. Ok, let’s say she had bad vision. But why didn’t she go to her granddaughter and ask her why those lights were hanging over the plant box in the garage.

It was a short two paragraph article that could have been developed into a human interest story. But it wasn’t. Why? Because it was drug related.

When I read the short article the two questions that immediately lit up the light bulb in my shallow mind were; why were they living with the grandmother and why were they growing more pot than for personal use?

We are currently in a bad economy. Unemployment is soaring to mind staggering numbers and a great number of people are losing their homes.

Perhaps they were living with Grandma because they had lost their home and their jobs. And to supplement their income and to provide for their child; they grew and sold marijuana.

Who knows?

The staff reporters (no byline) didn’t write about the underlying causes, which they should have. But they like many others – they really don’t care, it’s just a job (and they still have their jobs). They just report the news as they (or their Editors) see fit. It’s all the news that is Print to Fit.

The Beach Bum

A Balancing Act

I have a good friend (the Captain) that is a firm believer in the balance of nature hypothesis. The theory is; the forces of nature attempt to create equilibrium in an ecosystem. Many modern day Ecologists no longer believe that a balance of nature exists because of man’s disruption of these ecosystems.

The Captain states “If the Fishies and Frogies in Florida are happy, Florida will have a mild hurricane season.”

What makes those “Fishies and Frogies” happy? It’s a simple question with a simple answer. Food! In Ecology 101 we learned about the food chain, the predator/prey relationship and how it affects an ecosystem.

To sustain life you must have water. More water equals more food for the lower members of the food chain.

Florida has had more rain, this year, than usual during the Spring and early Summer. Central Florida had a lot more rain than normal, therefore less than customary brush fires and no need for a Hurricane to batter the coastal areas of the State on its way to make the “Fishies and Frogies” in Central Florida happy.

When looking at our back yard as a microcosm of an ecosystem, I have seen this theory play out. We had a lot of rain during the months of March through July. About 18 inches (of rain) above the normal average during that period.

First of all there are more insects (both the flying variety and crawling variety). Therefore there are more lizards; the Anole and Gecko populations have at least doubled since last summer. More tree frogs (who tend to sing with joy at 0500 hours). More birds (a new family of Blue Jays and a new family of Cardinals have moved into the yard).

In addition we have two new families of snakes (Black Racers). We had a family of Armadillos (I didn’t know that they were indigenous to Florida) earlier this year, but my daughter put Moth Balls around the perimeter of the yard to keep them from digging up the ground.

The Mole, Squirrel and rodent population is down thanks to the snakes.

The bottom line is that we have no Fishies in the back yard, but the Frogies are very happy this year. There must have been a lot of unhappy Frogies in Texas.

The Beach Bum

La Dolce Vita

Yesterday I received the following comment on my post about property taxes here in Florida:

“Don't be depressed, the people like yourself that live the good life in Florida looking at the woman and eating grouper can thank the people of Venazulala al ala for the gas and ass we pay for.” Anonymous

First of all, I dislike anonymous comments and wish that Blogger would do away with that option. Also the comment box has a spell check feature so there is no excuse, except for drunkenness, for the misspelling of Venezuela. However with the al ala written after it, it may have been intentional. Your guess is as good as mine.

I do not pay taxes, I do not own property nor had an income for the past two years. And let me state, for the record, that I would love to be paying taxes, own a home and making an income.

“Don’t be depressed.” The depression that I was writing about was an economic depression. However what depresses me personally is the fact that my children and grandchildren are going through hard times. Because of my current situation, I am unable to help them. As I see it, it will only get worse.

“Live the good life in Florida.” It depends on what you call the good life. It also depends on where you live in Florida. When I first moved to Florida I decided to live on the beach. The cost of housing was higher than in the city but benefits were much greater. The warm salt water in the Gulf of Mexico had a therapeutic effect on my arthritic knees (I could walk without a limp) and the lack of pollen bearing trees helped my allergies (I could breathe in the springtime without taking Claritin D).

Besides the health issues, there were other factors. My place of employment was slightly more than a half mile away. There was a Grocery store, a Liquor store, a Walgreens and several Bars and Restaurants within a half mile (comfortable walking distance) of my residence. Plus with the exception of the Cucaracha Grande (Palmetto Bug) and seasonal Love Bugs, there were very few flying insects.

The drawback of living on the beach is there are very few jobs available outside of the service industry.

For eight years I did live what I considered to be the good life. After being unable to work two years ago, it was no longer the good life.

“Looking at the women.” As far as I know Florida does not have a monopoly on women. They are everywhere. However, if you are referring to women over 55 with sagging breasts, varicose veined legs and pot bellies; The Gulf Coast of Florida seems to excel in this category.

“Eating grouper.” I like Grouper. But I also like Cod, Pompano, Salmon and many other mild tasting fish. In 2000 I could get a Grouper Sandwich (5 ounces with fries and coleslaw) for $5.49. A seven to eight ounce Grouper Filet dinner was just $9.95 with salad and potato.

Last summer I paid $8.95 for a skimpy four ounce sandwich. That’s when marine fuel was under $3 per gallon. Marine fuel is currently more than $4 per gallon and it takes a lot of fuel to find the “happy fishing grounds”.

That brings us to “Venazulala al ala.” As far as I know Venezuela doesn’t set the price on crude oil, OPEC does. The leading producer of crude oil is Saudi Arabia; I believe that Venezuela is fifth or sixth down the line. Besides, Venezuela has given us more good Baseball players than any other OPEC country.

The Beach Bum