A TWO PARTS WHISKEY COLUMN

Religiously speaking, I’m not an alcoholic. No wait, religiously — I am. Societally I’m not. Or is it socially? Oh who cares. And who fucking cares? I’m more of a drunk, in the best possible sense of the word, and I’ve learned a lot of shit on the road to damnation which is why I’ve grown to hate the Miami bar scene.
Each week I notice the bars brimming closer to capacity with tattooed hipsters dressed in their Amazon latest, or old jukeboxes being cleared out for sit-down service across the board. The music’s all been lowered to a tickle, too tame to compete with the douchebags who just flew into town, and the service is shit because the staff is a revolving door of the mistreated and misanthropic. Now I’m not one to hate on shitty tattoos or a greasy burger — I’m a big fan of both. But herein lies my problem. If I wanted a loud restaurant, I would’ve gone to Flannigan’s. If I wanted to be grinded on by a tourist I’d go to Mango’s. And I don’t wanna do either of those things! Why can’t I get drunk like a moron in Miami anymore? It figures in the age of ride-sharing it’s become impossible to drink on the town til you can’t walk straight. What happened to the days of a cheap date for that matter? Every time I go out in Miami I’m reminded of how much more responsible it is to stay home and rail lines of cocaine off a tinder date or slide up to my exes house with a sack of Chic’Fil’A than it is to go out to PF Changs or Baru. Because I really shouldn’t be doing either of those other things! Why can’t a man just get some fucking Lo Mein and a beer in this town without being taken for a bank ride that’s got my credit score looking like a seismograph?

One of these days, I’ll learn some financial responsibility. And one of these days, I’ll quit drinking, too… But until that day, these bars oughta get their shit together.