The ocean does not dream of you.
Fellow squares, back me up: It’s hard to feel cool enough for a liquor store. The dazzling array of choices pairs nicely with an acute awareness of your inexperience. Even if you are well-initiated to the normal alcoholic suspects, can you remember the names of the others? Can you pronounce them? (Please see chartreuse).
Perhaps it’s the fear of being carded by the more-expert-than-I staff, which should have gone away after more than a decade of legally purchasing potables, but there you go. Somehow, I struggle through. 🫡
Recently, I stopped into the liquor store to pick up a gift. (Fun fact: The chain is called “Gall and Gall”. The gall of the Dutch to name it this.) And this time, fear be damned! I knew exactly what I wanted. I stepped up to the counter and asked for it with confidence.
As the clerk handed me the bottle, I spied the tattoo. Spanning the entire length of his forearm, in dark block capital letters, it read:
