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  • "The Drinking Problem" OR "Sometimes I Write a Dating Column"


    AN EXPLANATION FOR MY ABSENCE: 
    I know it's been an obscenely long time since I've updated this here site, but I assure you that I haven't just been watching HGTV on a loop. I decided to devote most of my energy to working on some fiction, which you can find at diaryofanightcreature.com. It's basically the first draft of a novel. And it's done. So YAY for me. I promise to get this site up and running again and here's a little morsel until that happens....


    The following piece was just e-published in ONE WAY magazine (http://oneway-mag.com/) as a dating column. Unfortunately the formatting there is a little wonky so it's kind of an arduous read. Oh, and the editors forgot to include my last name. You know, just a small problem. So here is "The Drinking Problem" written by Jeremy Jordan King... not Jeremy Jordan, the Canadian porn star or Jeremy Jordan, the failed 90's actor. Enjoy.

    The Drinking Problem

    I dated a model-type man-boy a while back. Well we didn’t really date. We just occasionally got drunk-naked. In my soberer moments I simply lusted after him, dreaming of his perfect face, hair and clothing. I couldn’t pinpoint anything substantial about his personality that attracted me. I was into him for superficial reasons.
    I tried to explain all of this over drinks with a friend. As my arms flail for dramatic effect, I spill my specialty drink on my meticulously planned ensemble. “I fucking hate these martini glasses,” I squawk. “What kind of asshole thought they were a good idea? Bartenders fill this unstable, easily breakable glass to the brim with an expensive drink that will be guaranteed to spill, making the customer increasingly anxiety ridden, completely negating the idea that a martini is supposed to calm ones nerves. Brilliant. Plus, these glasses just look too gay.” I'm already busting at the seams with faggotry. I mean, I never leave home without a broche or ornately patterned scarf. Do I really need to hold a delicate glass rimmed with pink crystals and garnished with a puff of cotton candy to further advertise my homosexuality? And don’t even get me started on the vagina-shape of that particular chalice. It’s offensive.
    “Then why do you order them?” my friend asks.
    “Because I like the idea of them…like I like the idea of that pretty boy.”
    Bingo. I realize that martini glasses and model guys are practically the same. They have big heads mounted on grotesquely thin bodies, filled with nothing but vapid cosmopolitan astringent. They stand overly garnished, thinking they're the shit even though everyone secretly agrees they’re a pain in the ass. While the model and the martini might look good from across the room, once I get up close it becomes clear that they’re just goofy Midwesterners trying too hard to look like they belong in New York.
    When the cocktail waiter comes over, I order another something off the drink menu. “Excuse me. What kind of glass does that come in?” I ask him.
    “A martini glass,” he says, dryly. His silent coda would have been, “What else would it come in, you dumb $%#@.”
    I ignore his rolling eyes and continue. “Can I get my drink in something else?”
    He throws me a blank stare and tosses his flat-ironed hair (he was definitely a martini kind of guy). “What kind of glass would you like?” he finally mutters.
    I begin to panic. If the type of glass a person drinks from is reflective of their taste in men, I’m being asked a pretty important question.
    There’s always a rocks glass. That thing is sturdy and modest…the preferred glass of alcoholics who like their liquor with three ice cubes, possibly with a splash of this or that. But like a real, beefy booze hound, Mr. Rocks will probably backhand me when I mention that he’s drinking too much.
    Or there’s the highball. It’s tall, fit and not overly feminine or masculine. He’s like a Hells Kitchen gay. A chorus boy. My drink would look damn good in that glass. Until I take one sip and realize it’s all ice. Yeah he feels good in my hand but our affair is over before I even get a chance to become punch-drunk. Flighty little bitch.
    The waiter continues to glare at me. “The glass, sir?”
    “Surprise me,” I say.
    I need to keep my options open. I’ll take what the world (or waiter) brings me…except a violently drunk model-glass with a midtown zip code.