shanenickerson.com

crawl

Dying streetlamps and the glow of a distant fluorescent supermarket sign light my way as I stumble down a sidewalk in Venice. If I squint my eyes, I can imagine that I am in New York, and that everyone walks at night to the next bar or club or party. The warm, summer air reminds me that instead, I am in Los Angeles, where nobody really walks at all. From 9pm until 1:30am, the bars are filled with artists and former artists, coming to escape their day. It is a small window, and at the end of it, sometimes you walk to a local late-night mexican restaurant to let the buzz hit you. In the warm breeze created by passing cars, the streets in Venice are still alive and dangerous. It's still not New York, but when you get close to the Mexican place, more people are walking in. They're walking from their cars, but you pretend not to notice.

Slowly, over taquitos, the night ends. You cling to the time and to the moment as it evaporates around you, and you find your car in the lights of the sodium lamps in the cold parking lot across the street. It is a night in Los Angeles, and it is still empty in spite of the crowds and the perpetual mood of the hundreds of lights around you.

my newest obsession: Scotch

I like to think I've settled into 35 rather well. I think the clearest sign that I am aging properly is the fact that I have now conditioned myself to be...

A Scotch Drinker.

I'm not talking about some bullshit blend either, I'm talking about a nice Single Malt Scotch. You know, the good shit. I have my friend Aaron to thank for my recent rise up the alcohol ladder. He had a bachelor party not long ago, where the guest of honor was NOT a beautiful whore named "Cookies," but instead a "Scotch Expert," who taught us all the finer points of drinking Scotch Whisky.

For those of you not versed in the wonderful world of Whisky, Scotch is simply Whisky from Scotland. There is much debate about where whisky originated, but one thing is clear: Scotland has mastered it.

I've come a long way as a drinker of alcohol. Unlike many of my peers, I didn't start drinking (other than a horrible sip off of dad's beer every now and then) until college. While most of my high school friends were pounding Budwater, I was too scared. I didn't want to piss my parents off. I was kind of a pussy, what can I say?

In college, I decided it was time. I got myself a 4 pack of Wild Berry Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers and drank one. I waited for "the drunk." It didn't come. I drank the rest of them. I got a sugar buzz and a stomach ache and a painful pseudo-strawberry drunk-like sensation. Bullshit.

The next time around, I went to a basement party. They had peach Schnapps. I drank enough to kill Russell Crowe. I vomited on my sheets later that night, and it seeped into my hair because I was too drunk to lift my head. Luckily, I had a saint for a roommate. He threw me in the shower and stripped the vomity sheets off my bed and made sure I kept breathing all night. Fun times.

From there, I progressed to cheap beer. I learned to enjoy beer (since I HATED the taste) by pouring it into a funnel and sucking it through a tube at light speed. More vomiting. More fun.

Around the summer of my first Junior year of college, I decided to get into some Canadian Whisky. I think it was Seagram's VO. Gross. No vomiting, but it would have been nice if I had.

After college, my taste for beer developed and deepened and darkened. I went from Keystone Light to Corona; Milwaukee's Best (The Beast) to Sierra Nevada; Grolsch to Guinness. These days, the darker the beer, the better. I haven't vomited from drinking too much beer in years. Progress.

I'm also rather experienced when it comes to hard alcohol. The Brit in me enjoys a nice Gin; the wannabe Mexican in me loves Tequila and all of the drinks it populates; and I'm always down for a vodka based bitch drink. Until recently, there was no room for straight Scotch Whiskey in my alcohol repertoire. It reminded me of that Canadian shit I drank way too much of that one time. Just the smell sent me into a stinky insta-flashback that made me physically retch.

That is, until I decided that I was going to overcome my aversion to Scotch and attempt to develop a taste for it. The bachelor party scotch expert was the perfect excuse to learn how to drink Scotch. Most importantly, it was the perfect excuse to learn about how to drink a good Single Malt Scotch.

If you're curious, here's what I learned that might also help you to become a newbie convert Scotch drinker.

Pour yourself a shot of a nice Single Malt Scotch. Don't waste your time with Chivas or Johnnie Walker, because those are blends. If that's all you have, your best bet there is to pour 'em over ice and add a splash of water (or worse, Coke). However, with a nice Macallan 18 or Caol Ila 18, you'll want to drink it neat. Take a sip and let it swirl around your mouth for 5 or 6 seconds. It will burn a little, but you'll get used to it. Each Scotch has a distinct flavor. Now, take a deep breath and swallow. Exhale and enjoy the lack of throat burn that would have come if you had haphazardly "downed it."

I'm telling you, it's an acquired taste that feels a lot more refined than shotgunning a PBR or a Natty Light in a musky, danky basement. I'm pretty excited about my new favorite alcohol. As I get older, all of my tastes seem to deepen.

Dunkin' Donuts has given way to Peet's.
Bud Light has given way to Anchor Steam or a nice IPA.
Peach Schnapps vomit nights have given way to unvomitous evenings sipping a nice Scotch and savoring the 18 years of flavor.

I'm sure it's only a matter of years before I suddenly have the urge to get hairplugs and buy a Corvette and talk about the Glory Days, but as my taste in alcohol matures, I can't help but be psyched to confidently order a neat single malt Scotch and not just be saying it because I read in some biography that Hemingway used to do it.