Feels like a Tuesday.
My friend and I occasionally go on a killing spree. We started doing it about ten years ago, on a random Tuesday night. We hang out most Tuesday nights. It’s a time, every week, for us to unwind and lean into a more visceral experience, to feel alive.
To count as a “killing spree,” we have to finish, or “kill,” at least three bottles. The bottles can be of essentially any type: whiskey, vodka, rum, port, gin, Amari, tequila, or a mix. Over time, we’ve gotten better at judging which bottles are “killable” and which would be ambitious. More often than not, we cherrypick the bottles with only a few remaining ounces.
Though we don’t kill in anger, some bottles stubbornly resist their demise. We kill as part of an ongoing growth process. These almost empty bottles take up precious, limited shelf space. The death of each bottle brings with it the potential of a new bottle, a unique flavor profile, a new gastronomic experience. Keeping a nearly empty bottle means forgoing a new full one, forgoing a new flavorful adventure.
It’s this novelty that shakes us out of our day-to-day lives.
We drink to slow things down, to savor the moment, to get back in touch with our physical senses. For us, drinking isn’t an escape. It’s a rebirth, a weekly rebirth, no less. Some people drink to forget, but we drink to remember. So, now and then, we have to kill some bottles.
Admittedly, sometimes my friend gets a little sentimental about it. Outstanding bottles get cleaned and ultimately stored as part of a growing commemorative group on top of his large display case of collectibles. We venerate them and their memory with permanent shelf space. Their existence, as immortalized exceptions, underscores the deaths of their brethren.
But this is the highest honor. The vast majority of bottles, even the excellent ones, get tossed into the recycling bin at the end of a simple ritual. As we finish each bottle, we line it up on the counter. At the end of the night, we say goodbye. Each container reminds us of the fleeting nature of life, which, again, is why we drink in the first place — to remember.
Most days aren’t Tuesday.
Most days involve cubical farms, standardized reports, repetitive house chores, and other life-denying painfully modern and Sisyphean experiences. They involve a parade of neutral colors and to-do lists, waiting in line, filling out forms. We get caught up in bureaucratic loops, maddening fine print, and other mundane tasks. These days lull us into a near-death-like state of complacency. But not on Tuesdays.
Beautiful and ephemeral moments fill Tuesday nights.
We’ll build a fire and tend to it through the night, mesmerized by the flames and warmed by the crackling embers. We’ll smoke cigars meditating through the rhythmic breathing, amused by the wisps of smoke briefly dancing before dissipating. We’ll watch good movies and ask ourselves big questions about friendship, about “getting busy living or getting busy dying,” about remote Mexican beaches with soft sand and good fishing. And of course, throughout the night, we’ll drink good drinks.
The killing sprees are a necessary evil, a kind of perpetual Spring cleaning. We don’t do them all the time, only when it “feels right.” We’ll sometimes relish in the irony of their toll on our physical bodies. But they make us feel alive. They make us feel like it’s a Tuesday.
