No… this isn’t about the tragedies that take place on a nearly daily basis in the Middle East. Please shift your frame of reference.
When I was growing up a “shot” was what you got in your arm. I didn’t like it. I was afraid of it. I am told that this is common, and it didn’t mean that I was a “wuss”. Somewhere along life’s path, a “shot” became an injection, and maybe about the same time I lost my fear.
Then, somewhat later, I learned that a “shot” was an ounce and half of whisky, usually consumed as a pre-cursor to a beer (this combination known as a “boiler maker”), or dropped into a beer with a shot glass when it was known as a “depth charge”.
It was considered a “working class” drink… something that had a whiff of dirty finger nails, tired bones & mill towns.
In recent decades the “shot” has evolved into a “mini-cocktail”… complete with fancy names: lemon drop, B-52, sex on the beach, to name but a few. All sorts of ingredients have been transistorized into tiny servings and then tossed back in a single gulp.
And culturally we have moved the “shot” from the dark neighborhood joints of coal mining towns, to the upscale saloons of College towns and the au courant establishments of wealthy suburbia.
The “shot” has become part emblematic of a celebratory excursion of the moment, and part vehicle for a quick and tasty path to inebriation. The latter element being crucial the nearer we are to the campuses.
I have tended bar for a number of years… the recipes for these micro concoctions come and go… that’s fine. Personally? I have been known to enjoy a martini or two, and as a evening lengthens, I sometimes sip some of Scotland’s best… or Kentucky’s… Shots? Nah, it just ain’t me.
No matter… I was a spectator recently to an “event” at my second “office”, the exquisite Ash Creek Saloon. Two teams of five contestants each lined up on opposing sides of the bar… Stalwarts on the “business” side of the bar coming from the ranks of the Ash Creek staff (aided by two serious friends of the staff… including Red, the architect of this escapade)… and the “friendly opposition” being recruited from some regulars, plus a “stranger” who was dragooned into the contest.
Five behind the bar, against five on the patron side. Each soul standing with a half pint of Guinness into which a hot glass containing Baily’s and Jameson has been submerged. This appealing libation is called a “car bomb”.
Then at the appointed signal (I, as an impartial observer, whose integrity was not to be doubted, acted as the official starter)… a mere “go”… then each of the lead contestants shot the “car bomb” and upon conclusion the glass was slammed in dramatic fashion, which was the signal for contestant #2 to launch his or her shot…
You know… a relay. The slam of the glass was like the “passing of the baton”.
Anchoring the Ash Creek team was one James Doyle, and that spelled doom for the “visiting team”. Geeze. He could have been a quarter of a glass down & he would have won. But when he got the “baton” he was even, and when he shot that car bomb, it turned into the equivalent of Secretariat winning the Derby by 21 lengths.
Stunning. It made Big Mike’s effort asthe opposing anchor’s effort look like a leisurely sip of Earl Grey. How did James do that? That shot simply evaporated.
Well… never mind. I never question nature’s mysteries like where the elephants go to die, or how did James Doyle dispose of a half pint of Guinness (augmented by Baily’s & Jameson) faster than you could blink an eye. I don’t know… maybe he doesn’t know that multiple gulping is permitted on this planet.
I gotta shake my head. I gotta smile… and while you’re there, I guess my tumbler of Wild Turkey is looking a mite low…