Image Is Everything: Obey Your Thirst

     Last week I started a new job at a Hedge Fund. It’s my first time working for a Fund, but I’ve been in the financial industry most of my professional life. Finance is generally a nice niche to work in, as the money attracts talent and the talent encourages the companies to invest in employee retention, which is just bullshit corporate jargon for not treating the people you rely on like shit. Anyway, my department has an overzealous, still wet behind the ears intern who likes to tag along with me to the kitchen in an attempt to tap into my vast pool of technical knowledge. Whilst on a recent foray into our sectors designated kitchenette, said intern and I got into a conversation regarding beverage selection and the image associated with what you choose to drink. The refrigerators in the office are teeming with choices; sodas, waters, seltzers, energy drinks, juice drinks, sports drinks etc. We got into a conversation about what the other chose to drink, which trailed us back to the dim sector of our office where they banish the IT group, and quickly enthralled the other acolytes of the Church of Coffee and Scotch. As my devotees imbibed the sermon I was preaching from my full-time cubicle/part-time pulpit, I knew with divine certainty that I had a message I needed to chisel into the stone of the Internet, like a modern day blogging Moses.

     Your image is an extension of who you are, where you’ve been, and where you hope you’re going. It’s outwardly evident in many ways, but in true Coffee and Scotch style I’m focusing on the relationship between what you drink, and what you want people to think of you. Stopping at Starbucks on your way to work for a grande, decaf, extra hot, soy milk latte with no whip? Look in the mirror, do you see a pretentious douchebag behind the wheel of a Saab wearing designer sunglasses? This is the part where you lecture me about what safe cars Saab’s are while I’m tea-bagging your grande, skinny, iced, carmel macchiatto, which happens to be the perfect temperature for cooling my balls off on a hot summer afternoon. Do you really need to spend five bucks on a shitty cup of coffee that tastes like burnt vegemite or do you just need the other people in the office to know that you can afford to? Hey, instead of that hippie hangout, full of wifi loving yuppies banging away at their Macbook Pros, commanding an army of zombie barista’s in green aprons, maybe you’re stopping at Dunkin Donuts on your way to work instead. Ordering coffee there is a hell of a lot simpler, but the odds that your job involves wearing a shirt with your name on it quadruple when you drink your morning joe from that vaunted white styrofoam cup with the orange and purple letters emblazoned proudly on it. You can swap out the Saab for a van with a 1-800 number on the side and a “How’s my driving?” bumper sticker on the back too. Have you seen a lot of construction sites littered with Starbucks cups recently? Dunkin Donuts is working class coffee that keeps America running, served by little old ladies wearing brown visors and smiles.

     The astute reader is probably ready to ingest my thoughts on scotch drinking but I think a more appropriate libation for this dissertation is beer. You know that moment standing at the cooler in the package store, trying to figure out what the hell to buy? It’s the same feeling you get when you’re in a crowded bar staring at the tap handles like a monkey staring at the keys on a typewriter, trying to crank out some iambic pentameter. Beer is all about image and you don’t want to make a bad impression. I thought it might be helpful to break down a few bad beer decisions, so you don’t blow your limited opportunities at landing some skanky bar meat this Friday night. The average bar is filled with potable pitfalls for the unwary, and the tube tops are sizing you up as soon as you walk in the door. So when the bartender, who is the odds on favorite to be the hottest chick in the place anyway, asks you “what will it be?”, don’t fuck it up right away and order a light beer. If you order a beer based on how many calories are in it, or worse how many carbs it has, you might as well just go home now, sit on your left hand until it falls asleep and enjoy a few blissful minutes with the stranger. Don’t order a fucking Bud or Miller either you hillbilly, unless you’re looking to go home with the toothless chick rocking the Dale Earnhardt t-shirt and you don’t mind getting your freak on in the bed of her pickup truck. I’d also advise pumping the brakes if you’re ordering a beer that comes with any kind of fruit garnish. Strictly speaking, I wouldn’t drink a Corona if I had a mouthful of fire ants and nothing to wash em out with except the aforementioned beer or a bucket of warm donkey piss. If you’re a recent burrito convert or it’s Cinco de Mayo and you need to go south of the border for your beer, stick with a Dos Equis. I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I make sure it doesn’t make me look like a pussy. Incidentally, no matter what beer you ultimately decide on, if it comes in anything but a pint glass or maybe a mug, you should pour it on the bar, light it on fire, and go someplace else. That shit really pisses me off. Nothing says, “I’m not gonna get laid tonight” more than sitting at the bar drinking a light beer with a lemon wedge floating in it, out of some kind of over-sized brandy snifter. Good luck out there single guys.