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ZOMG guysies, I am still funking SmAsHed! from Wills’ bachelor party last night. Srsly, it was off da royal chizzy!!! Total bach-analia, yo!

OK, so, of course it started out totes norms and civil and whatnot, ‘cuz good, ol’ Droopy-Faced McPrincenstein was trying to prove he could still hang with the boyz and all, and I think he was getting a little wack on the stripper talking about how he wanted to be her tampon and stuff.

But finally he split, so then we were all like, “Yo, bust out dem Crack Babies!” I mean, ain’t no way we  throwin’ a stag party for  my dawg Wills and not do major shottage of Crack Babies. They’re his fave choice for getting royally f’ed up!

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Of course, the one time I am so besotted by my own cocktail invention that I vaingloriously choose to name the damn thing after myself — the one time I do that, of course I encounter practically that exact cocktail not once but twice within the same week.

Why, the chances of such a coincidence are nearly as preposterous as the obtuse grandeur with which I declare: TO HELL WITH ALL THE OTHERS, IT IS I WHO HAS INVENTED THE GREATEST COCKTAIL EVER THOUGHT UP BY MAN — OR WOMAN, BUT ESPECIALLY MAN!!

Let me back up.

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And now for something completely self-glorifying!

In between blog posts here, I (and society at large) force myself to actually write for money. Sometimes, it’s actually even fun! Like when I spent the bulk of 2010 happily employed as “Fairy GodWriter” to entrepreneur and founder Melanie Notkin during the researching, writing and editing of her first book, Savvy Auntie: The Ultimate Guide For Cool Aunts, Great-Aunts, Godmothers and All Women Who Love Kids — a book which, ahem, happens to come out today.

Is the book awesome? Yes, it is, in that even if you have no interest in changing poopy diapers, it will make you believe that changing a poopy diaper would actually be fun. Is the book not just Auntie-savvy, but cocktail-savvy? Indeed, it is that, too, as it contains a pair of cocktail recipes courtesy of yours truly, perfectly geared to the woman who loves afternoon outings with someone else’s little ones as much as she cherishes the well-earned cocktail she treats herself to once she’s back home in her un-babyproofed lair.

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Guest post by the very British Nick Leftley, senior editor at Maxim and a mate made for drinking with

A few months ago, I was out on a tequila-tasting night courtesy of the charming and spectacularly agave-obsessed folks at Don Julio. After tasting every variety of tequila they make (and at this point, I’d personally recommend the Don Julio 1942, an Anejo tequila that’s creamy, peppery and as good for sipping as most decent Scotches), master distiller Enrique de Colsa introduced us to the concept of the Luxury Drop.

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Thank God it’s Good Friday! And just when I figured y’all had given up soliciting my mixology advice for Lent, lookie what one loyal reader emailed in:

Dear Mrs. Sean,

Ideas for an Easter brunch cocktail/punch thing? We’re doing a Low Country menu for 15 people, main dishes being kick-ass gumbo, shrimp creole, country ham, cole slaw, salad (?!?), biscuits and sausage gravy. Past years’ beverages have included sangria and various champagne cocktail things in punch bowls. We’re hunting for something with Low Country relevance that will be OK for us and appropriate for others of various shapes and sizes, and at 11am on a Sunday.

Now, I’m nothing if not sacrilegious, punny, and a little tipsy right now — that last one on account of my enjoying the heck out of Jesus’ Deathday slurping down some Passionfruit of the Christ Punch, which is what I’ve come up with for said loyal reader. I know that God only blesses those who are humble… but godammit, I done invented some awesome, yum punch! (God also blessed the poor in spirit, and considering my apartment contains about $800 in spirits, I’m screwed anyway.)

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Read any good porn lately? Bourbon porn, I am of course talking about.

Back in my Royale days, one of my regulars was a fortysomething former Marine and East Coast transplant named David who, best we could deduce, bought a shack of a house around the corner from the bar specifically for commuting-to-and-from-alcohol purposes. I don’t think any of us ever knew exactly what he did for a living either, and the behind-the-bar debate on his sexuality was endless, but he was always friendly and a huge tipper, so yay David!

Anyway, David’s brother-in-law wrote a book, said David, and David kept promising to bring me a copy. Like many other aspects of David’s existence, I was suspect of this oft-repeated promise, the way you never believe any teenager who claims to have a significant other from summer camp/in Canada. But produce the book he eventually did.

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Dessert cocktails are usually not my thing. Their very etymology is redundant, and quite frankly, any drink sweet enough to merit the extra designation of “dessert” may as well just go by Insulintini as far as I’m concerned.

Dessert wines and dessert beers (the latter not a thing, really, but bear with me) tend to fall under that same philosophy, but in each case, I’ve got my much-cherished exception. For example, I love Moscato d’Asti, which is a peachy-flavored, pink-tinged, Italian sparkler that has become a hallmark of summer to me. Give me a split of Moscato and a porch on a 90-degree night and I’m completely in my cups (a phrase which, I swear to Bacchus, up until this very second I always thought meant just self-contentedly happy, but apparently it means happy via inebriation, which knowing me I can’t argue against).

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Guest Post by Alex W. Rodriguez,  jazz guy, friend of the blog, and future UCLA Ph.D. Ethnomusicology candidate. For Alex’s thoughts on jazz check out his blog Lubricity, WBGO radio, or the Newark Star Ledger.

After my grandfather passed away, my dad and his sisters began to take inventory of the stuff that he had kept in their childhood home in Central Oregon—books, knickknacks, and all paraphernalia that accumulates in a lifetime. The most fascinating material came from his collection of books, and perhaps the strangest gem of all is Old Mr. Boston’s Official Bartender’s Guide.

Published in 1935, in the wake of prohibition’s repeal, it reads like a hastily-thrown-together mishmash of recipes to promote Old Mr. Boston alcohol products. But I have never come across anything that has immediately evoked the spirit of the 1930s (pun most definitely intended) than this little brown book. Take this formal introduction to Old Mr B. himself:

Sirs, –May we now present to you Old Mr. Boston in permanent form. We know you are going to like him. He is a jolly fellow, one of those rare individuals, everlastingly young, a distinct personality and famous throughout the land for his sterling qualities and genuine good fellowship. His friends number in the millions those who are great and those who are near great even as you and I. He is jovial and ever ready to accept the difficult role of “Life of the Party,” a sympathetic friend who may be relied upon in any emergency. Follow his advice and there will be many pleasant times in store for you. Gentlemen, Old Mr. Boston!

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Many Royale customers, I’m sure, assume that the Mr. Smith cocktail is named after Royale proprietor Steven Smith — or at least his father, who’s also a part owner of the business and, truth be told, whose first name I can’t remember because “Mr. Smith” was all I ever called him.

But none of that has anything to do with the Mr. Smith. The Mr. Smith is named after Jeff Smith, who might also be addressed as The Former Honorable Jeff Smith, Ph.D. Jeff was the subject of a documentary, Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore?, about the time he popped his campaign cherry running for the congressional seat vacated by veteran Rep. Dick Gephardt, and how he narrowly lost the Democratic primary to Russ Carnahan, son of a famous Missouri politician, and how he was a short, Jewish, basketball-loving UNC grad.

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As both a maker of cocktails and a plier of the written word, I am wholly offended by garish concoctions (cocktastrophes, perhaps?) that look like this and, insult on top of insult, co-opt the nomenclature of “daquiri”:

And so, welcome to reason #I-lost-track of why I so thoroughly enjoyed pitching drinks at The Royale, where the Holly Hills daquiri looks like this:

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