Skipping Meals

I shouldn’t skip dinner as often as I do. Drinking on an empty stomach is not the adult thing to do. It is unhealthy and immature. It leads to reckless behavior and constant regrets. It is also the only way I have found to conserve money while not skimping on my social life while living in New York. Sure, this practice has lead to many unfortunate situations, like sleeping through our subway stop (sorry Catharine) or screwing things in Gchat (sorry Andrea), or countless other things I am less than proud of. But, if the option is dinner and drinks, or just drinks and more drinks, I am going to pick the later.

— Jeff

Boxed Wine

Today I will confess my deepest, most profane secret. Its full weight has long pressed hard on my soul (and liver). Dionysus, cover thy ears; my sommelier, bite your tongue; here it is: I enjoy boxed wine. No longer am I willing to steal off to some questionable liquor store in Gowanus to purchase my bag-in-a-box, with scarf pulled high and hood drawn low. Judge me as you will, but I drink my wine as often from the box as the bottle, and am tired of hiding.

There is a time and a place for nice wine—I will never hesitate if offered a respectable glass of Beaujolais—but for the life of me I cannot taste a dime of difference between a box of wine and most $15 bottles.

So, I’d rather have the box, with more wine, then play classy with a cheap bottle marketed with some cute animal on the label. (I am the only one waiting for a children’s book based on The Little Penguin?) Those who claim to know wine will snub us both, and those who don’t will be happy with the quantity.

Anyhow, if you split a $50 bottle with a girl, she will feel obliged to sleep with you. If you split a $12 box, she’ll just forget to say no. In these economically troubled times, there is really only one responsible thing to do.

Still not convinced? Let me leave you with this:

Juice Boxes: Blissful childhood memories
Boxes of wine: ?
a. Hazy adult memories
b. Regrets?
c. Something else
d. All of the above

– Jeff

Taco Bell

I shouldn’t like Taco Bell—they serve Grade D meat, buy slave labor tomatoes, run asinine TV commercials, and may have been tangentially responsible for the overthrow of at least two Latin American governments—but I do. After a night of consistent drinking, I simply do not care. Taco Bell knows this; that’s why they stay open late. I don’t see that organic burrito place open past midnight.

Questionable meat? I’m a vegetarian; I’ll substitute refried beans. Dubious labor policies? Boo-hoo, I only want my tomatoes picked by the softest child-labor hands. Intellectually offensive advertising? Wait, there’s advertising that’s not intellectually offensive? Bringing down democracies? Pshaw, any democracy susceptible to a fast-food conglomerate doesn’t count.

I don’t care that a Taco Bell Gourdita is nothing like a real Mexican Gordita: just because their food looks nothing like authentic Mexican cuisine is no comment on its taste. You may as well critique Beethoven for sounding nothing like Mozart, or lambast prosecco for tasting nothing liking Champagne. Taco Bell is what it is, they don’t apologize, and neither will I.

That look of snobbish scorn I see you beating down on me when I return during intermission with a half finished Chalupa; I see right through that. You’re secretly jealous. Just don’t tell anyone in my eating club, Ok?

— Jeff