India is not a place for great boozing. Historically, Hinduism doesn’t have as strong a connection to the good stuff as Judaism, Christianity, or even Sufi Islam (open Fitzgerald’s translation of the Rubbaiyat of Omar Khayyam, close your eyes, and point to a random quatrain and it’ll more than likely have to do with wine.) When the least fun man in the world ended up becoming the nation’s semi-naked hero during the struggle for independence, Gandhi’s puritan values were cherished by people who would probably have thought better of their stances were it not for the fact that the British had just left and they were all massacring each other left and right (or East and West, as the case may be.) Gandhi even went so far as to encourage some anti-alcohol language to be inserted into the constitution. But in spite of this, and in spite of the attempt to ban alcohol for a few years in the 70’s and in spite of several states being “dry,” Indians still drink. Just not that well.

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William Hogarth’s “Gin Lane” – an idyllic past free of all those nasty toxins.

Last night I attended the birthday party of a dear friend. After eating our delicious meal, we sat around sipping champagne and talking. Naturally, the conversation turned to that old, gold confabulatory standby: colonic health. One of the young ladies present was recounting her recent “detox cleanse” and recommended it to them all. Most present nodded sagely, acknowledging that this plan of action was indeed a wise one. Well, whenever I see advice (especially medical advice being given by people without medical training,) and everyone in the room accepting it without question, I get a bit worried. So I spoke up, doubting the efficacy of detoxification schemes. The response came back from all corners: modern living fills our bodies with some kind of “toxins.” Asked what these toxins exactly are and you won’t exactly get a straight answer, but they seem to have some vague connection to pollution, pesticides, and preservatives without getting too scientific about it (because there were no actual scientists in the room.)

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Orpheus and Eurydice by George Frederick Watts (1817-1904)

The Cocktail Recipe is at the end of my story:

When I walk home alone late at night, I tend to look all around. Even during the day I look all around. It has very little to do with my location or the people around me and everything to do with a deep-seated neurotic fear of instant violence stemming from two experiences (one global and one personal,) which happened several years ago. Ever since these things happen, I can’t help it: I look around constantly because I don’t feel safe unless I know exactly what is happening in my surroundings. I’m also incredibly observant. To a terrifying degree.

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IAYD is a young chiptune musician from Corpus Christi, Texas. Possibly the youngest chiptune musician of note. His name stands for “I Am Your Destruction,” he looks like a shorter Joey Ramone, and his music is filled with the kind of growling ferocity one would expect from an approximately fifteen-year-old hormone filled young man. Download his EP “Dirty Electricity” here (full disclosure: I’m due to have a release on the same netlabel…) Also, be sure to download the devastating “Pistol Shrimp,” which was written with the help of New York’s own underage chiptune demons Starscream. Alex (IAYD’s civilian name,) gave one of the most energetic performances at last year’s Blip Festival, producing a quality, level, and style of sound completely original and transcending the medium of Game Boy-sound chip-generated music. Scene veteran Bit Shifter was shocked to learn that it was only his third live performance. So, how do I choose to celebrate the achievements of someone too young to drink who just received wide acclaim for his performance at South By Southwest which I didn’t actually see? By naming a cocktail after his aggressive tune “Galaxy Smasher.”

Take half an orange and smash it into a pulp. Throw it in a blender with some ice, two ounces of Campari, one ounce of sweet sherry and two ounces of grapefruit juice. Blend it up, pour it into a highball glass, top it off with club soda, stir, garnish with a black cherry, and drink it through a straw on a hot Corpus Christi afternoon.

So, the Anamanaguchi (see my post yesterday,) album is finally up and I was right: it’s incredible. Not only that, but the website features each song paired with visuals by Paris Treantafeles and graphics by Dave Mauro. Prepare to have your mind blown:

http://www.dawnmetropolis.com/

I’m going to do something highly unprofessional. I’m going to review two new albums which I haven’t even heard. What’s worse, one of them is from my friends’ band. To make things even more unfair, I’m going to base my reviews entirely upon the bands’ previous music, the way they look, and what I think of them as human beings.

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On the stoop of my apartment building there is currently a Trojan-brand “Magnum”-variety condom – as if to say “abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Regrettably the air-mail size “French letter” doesn’t belong to me (elephantiasis of the Johnson is not one of my fortunate foibles.) But it is a fitting introduction to my bachelor’s digs. For I am nothing if not a consummate bachelor – the biggest regret I have upon the termination of my relationships is that I’ll have to take my shirts to a tailor to have the buttons sewn back on. That’s also proof of how ill-suited I am to be anything but a bachelor. Women, ever courting us poor debutante chaps with their eligibility inquiries, often ask if I can cook. Once I respond with “martinis and sandwiches, mostly,” they know I’m not the marrying type. That being said it doesn’t often stop them from coming over for at least one martini.

So what does a bachelor do on a day like today when the rest of the civilized world (read: not the idiotic thugs of the fundamentalist Hindu Sri Ram Sena group who are protesting Valentine’s day and attacking women in India who drink in pubs with men – read my essay about it here,) is enjoying the company of their lovers? Well, several things. Yesterday I ran into my dear friend R– in a bookstore and bought her a Valentine’s day copy of Code of the Woosters in exchange for a cup of tea, some precious book-talk and a much-appreciated peck on the cheek. It’s a rather life-affirming thing to step back and recognize that on a Friday evening you’re running into pretty female acquaintances by the Hegel, Heidegger, and Hume in the Philosophy section of a bookstore.

What else has me in such a cheery mood on a day when I’m sitting alone at home with naught but a pot of ¾ Assam ¼ Ceylon and a raw silk kurta? Well, several days ago, I set about making hand-made Victorian valentines (per Martha Stewart’s instructions,) from violet and gold brocade-patterned paper which I then sealed with imperial purple wax and a brass cast of the letter “N.” (See above photo.) On the inside of the first unfolding is a poem personally chosen for the recipient, and the second unfolding reveals a card on heavy cotton stationary with a note from me. I made four of these. The first went to my wonderful neighbor H– who has become a dear friend of mine and included this clever and moving poem “Self-Deceit” by Goethe:

My neighbour’s curtain, well I see,

Is moving to and fin.

No doubt she’s list’ning eagerly,

If I’m at home or no.

And if the jealous grudge I bore

And openly confess’d,

Is nourish’d by me as before,

Within my inmost breast.

Alas! no fancies such as these

E’er cross’d the dear child’s thoughts.

I see ’tis but the ev’ning breeze

That with the curtain sports.

The second went to my co-worker E– on whom I have had a crush for a long time. She’s perfectly aware of the fact but manages to gracefully rebuff all of my advances. Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t more fun for me this way and I prefer the pursuit and actually savor unrequited feelings more dearly than those of consummation. It’s a thought. Anyway, E– and I are lunch-buddies at work so I included two food-related poems (one sweet and one carnal,) and brought her pizza and cookies from her favorite restaurant which has sadly moved more than a dozen blocks away. She seemed appreciative. I felt a thrill at making her happy.

The next valentine goes to my old friend L–. She and I dated when we were a young, hormonal, and romantically overwrought eighteen. Since then we’ve remained friends and share a level of closeness which remains almost unparalleled in my other relationships with people. Nobody deserves a valentine more than her and I’m fortunate to be spending my Valentine’s Day evening drinking and eating with her. We’ve recently decided that we need to find a new term for one another because our relationship can’t be accurately described by other terms. Some options: Consort, Ally, Collaborator, Colleage, Comrade, Confederate.

My final valentine goes to A–, a blonde bombshell of an aspiring astrobiologist who I’ve only been out with twice but who’s just moved to New York on her own and therefore deserves a valentine just for that fact.

So there you have it – relationships (speaking of; check out my essay on Relationships,) of different kinds and varying levels of that elusive intangible variable we call love, each deserving of a valentine in their own right. And all that while avoiding red-rose clichés, Hallmark money wasters, and prix-fixe menus. Lonely beds might be difficult sometimes, but loyal hearts can ease the suffering like nothing else.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

–Natty

http://www.nattyadams.com

P.S. DOWNLOAD CHAPTER ONE OF MY NEW ALBUM FOR FREE HERE!!!

A monument in Xiang province to Chinese tea sage Lu Yu

I’m well aware that this is ostensibly an arts and cocktail column, and I’ll get to that in a minute, but first I’d like to reveal my other great liquor of love: tea. I love tea. I’ve just had my eighth cup of the day (at home I get to brew up my own favorite blend: 2/3 Assam tea, 1/3 Ceylon.) Tea flows through my veins (my uncle is the manager of one of the largest tea plantations in India,) and stimulates my brain to new heights. I would rather give up alcohol for life than have to give up tea. Now, when I speak of tea I am talking specifically of Camellia Sinensis, not any of the pretenders to the crown which are mere weeds in water as far as I’m concerned. It takes all of my will power not to backhand-slap anyone who, upon hearing that I like tea, immediately say something unforgivably tasteless and ultimately wrong like “what’s your favorite kind? Mine’s Chamomile, but I also like apple cinnamon spice sleepy time..” Whack! It would be so satisfying, no?
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So… I’m sure everyone has done one of these and I was rather pleased with mine so I thought I’d take it beyond the realm of Facebook because I’m an unapologetic egotist and I’m too busy (read: lazy - there’s a very fine line,) to write anything new.

25 Things about Nathaniel Adams that you definitely don’t need to and probably don’t want to know:

Alright, I’m going to be pretty self-indulgent, self-deprecating, and personal here. This is bound to be embarrassing stuff. If you have any interest in sleeping with me or developing some lasting friendship, please stop reading and go back to whatever bizarre image you had of me before.

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I’ll be up front with you, dear reader: I’ve been feeling a bit down. It’s been a rough week. Despite the fact that I have a beautiful veil of ivory-colored Mombassa-style mosquito netting hanging over my bed, despite the fact that I have several handsome new cavalry swords and a hereditary Gurkha Kukri dagger, despite the fact that arrangements are being made for me to move to the Himalayas for two months to live in the ancestral homestead with nothing but a loyal servant and a rifle to guard against monkeys, despite the fact that I’m being honored tonight by the New York City Atheists for my volunteer work spreading the bad news, and despite the fact that I’ve purchased the complete works of Solzhenitsyn, Orwell, Hitchens, Twain, Shakespeare and Marcus Aurelius, I’ve been in a funk which not even a dip into the old Jeeves and Wooster novels can bring me out of (although the liquor cabinet is another story all together.)

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