I'm the world's famous cocktail journalist(ess) Anna Väkeväinen - a recognized sipologist but mostly focusing on gonzo reportage. I'm so famous that sometimes replying to all the invitations and fan mail keeps me from doing the actual work: drinking. But I always get back on the track soon.
What can I say? That Biona Organic Agave Syrup works really well with Margarita's, according to American Bar's Mikko. And if that's not enough, it's glucemic index is great, meaning it gives you more sustainable energy than regurlar sugar. It's right there with fructose, and much better than honey. It follows logically that a Margarita with Agave Syrup is a health drink!
OK, didn't manage an impressive cocktail report this time. But you'll understand when you hear my excuses.
Excuse n:o 1: Liquidity problems. Yes, I know, liquidity should not be a problem for someone who handles liquids for a job, but I mean financial liquidity. The thing is, my capital is purely symbolic and social, and I gotta be really careful in exchanging it into economic capital, lest it diminish. In other words, can't sell out. So, please donate, N.O.W.
Excuse n:o 2: I got a text from an Ex.
Started the night by going to an exhibition opening at Mutageeni, displaying paintings by my friend Jenny Majke Suhonen. Downed two plastic cupfulls of punch, got suspicious - and yes, I was told it contained no alcohol! Got bored, left. Decided to take a healthy walk around Töölönlahti park. Got a text. From an ex. That Man. "I've got two tickets to Huvila tonight. Wanna come?" I immediately knew the answer: No way! I do wanna come, but not with you, slime! I was furious. And hurt again. Memories of the two weeks when I was his girlfriend flickered past my eyes in form of an r'n'b videoclip. How did I reply? I am ashamed. "At 7?"
Went home, sipped through a bottle of rosé and did the styling. Went overboard with sexyness, and knew I was giving in to the marshmellows. Meat is weak. Felt hugely feminine as I approached his familiar parfume-sweat-feromones-mix at the entrance. It made me feel tipsy. Which, of course, I was anyway. He let his hand run along my back. Went in.
Forgot about the band (does anyone really go to see a band for the music? come on!) and stayed outside at the bar drinking sparkling throughout the gig. Exchanged long looks, laughed at nothing and anything, felt a lot of marshmellows in the knickers. Oops, run into friends. They immediately abducted me behind the tent and tried to talk sense to me. "I'm in the flow", I laughed to mock my friend who practises meditation. "You've got to live in the Now." They gave up and hoped for the best.
Left the tent together, were proceeding towards his flat half blind, saliva secretion accelerating, marsmellows burning sweeter each second, when a woman who was passing by began staring. She stopped. Then he stopped. And me: I froze. He quickly dropped his hand off my waist.
"Hi!" he said.
The woman looked at me.
I noticed the top she was wearing underneath her jacket. Had I not seen that on his floor on that awful night? So, I found out he wasn't a trasvestite. He was worse.
I should have caused a scene. What had I to lose? It's that old trick of labelling a woman hysterical that holds us tame in this Millenium as in the Roman Empire when the Europeans were giving public shows displaying hysteria attacks of women.
I didn't cause any trouble at all, and that's exactly why men like him have always been able to sneak out of trouble from Bronze Age until the current Virtual Reality.
I broke myself free from the freeze. "Well, I'm going, see you later", I announced and let my shoes do the walking, my eyes do the mourning.
Met my friends again at Bar Devil and didn't cry for long. You know what? They were all compassion and none of the what-did-I-tell-you. They know how it is.
