A+E

Battling to the last garnish!

When master mixologist Francesco Lafranconi asked me, as a favor to him, to judge a cocktail competition, I groaned. But at least it bailed me out of the wet-T-shirt tournament I was originally booked for last Sunday evening.

I headed Downtown to Sidebar, fantasizing about a conveyor belt of exotic martinis and flaming daiquiris and being surrounded by a jocular crew of barflies bellowing pub songs during the final round. Turns out, I had confused cocktail competition with drinking competition—this contest couldn't have been more serious. The Nevada chapter of the United States Bartender Guild was holding its annual booze bout to decide who goes to the national mixology finals May 5 in Chicago.

"Coming from Europe, I am used to a bartender being an esteemed position," Lafranconi said. "It is a career, not just a transitional job like some people think."

I was one of four on the panel—Absolut brand ambassador Bobby Gleason; beverage specialist Armando Rosario, from the Bartender's Guild; and the Weekly's own Xania Woodman all joined me at a secluded table in the conjoining restaurant, Triple George (we were not allowed to see the competitors, or anyone else—just the pretty lady bringing us the drinks).

The criteria were simple: We graded on appearance, aroma and, of course, taste. I quickly realized it was unprofessional to down the entire drink—two sips seemd to be the norm.

The winner? Spike Tea, by creator Gaston Martinez. "It tastes like my hand lotion smells," Woodman said. "That one lotion you really wish you could eat." In Chicago Martinez will vie to represent the U.S. in the world finals in Taiwan. But as my pee-wee baseball coach used to say, everyone's a winner: The cocktails flowed all evening, and this judge started to lose some serious judgment.

Beauty be damned. It's hip to be wonky. Look at how we mock the physically perfect Tom Cruise and Angelina Jolie. Look at how we revere Ugly Betty and super-chubby Beth Ditto, singer with ultracred lesbo-punkers The Gossip. Look at the ad campaigns for Dove and SlimFast that feature "real" women. And ask yourself this: What do me, Beth, Betty, the Dove and SlimFast models and rough-as-a-burglar's dog porn star Ron Jeremy all have in common? We're all excellent conversationalists and absolutely amazing in bed. Why? Because we have to be.

Pretty people are, almost without exception, crap actors, boring conversationalists and—in my experience—shit in bed. Sometimes, as with Jennifer Lopez, they're so pretty the crap acting hardly matters. Other times they're so crap, no amount of prettiness can compensate—Keanu Reeves has pretty much ruined every movie he's been in. Except Bill and Ted. In which he played a moron.

Pretty people pretty much suck at pretty much everything because they don't try. The rest of us will shower them with sex and money anyway, so why bother? Why do you think Brangelina spend so much time saving the world? Because they're boring each other shitless. After decades of everybody hanging on their every banal word, can you imagine how atrophied their conversational skills must be? I bet the sex sucks too. Unless they ship in some ugly fatties to spice things up. But I digress.

Michael Stipe is reputed to have said that nobody need be celibate—all you have to do is keep lowering your standards. What he didn't say is that as you lower your standards, the sex actually gets better: You have sex with people who've had to become smarter and more skilled in the arts du boudoir because—in a society obsessed with physical beauty—how else do you get partners coming back?

In my 20s I rutted like a shortsighted, gap-toothed, crudely tattooed and slightly overweight punk stallion. This jolly shagfest was facilitated by my job as an English music journalist, frequent trips to the U.S. and the fact that Americans are suckers for a cute British accent.

Did I exhibit the famous British stiff upper lip and refrain from diving head-first into a continent-sized pit of eagerly trembling American flesh? No. I pigged out. And I did not discriminate against those who failed to measure up to the ridiculous and completely arbitrary social construct that is "beauty."

It was a pretty mixed bag. There were good shags, bad shags, mediocre shags and downright disasters. But, generally speaking, the wonky folk were more fun in bed and massively more fun to talk to before and after. Bottom line: Puglies make better lovers.

I suspect George Clooney—easily the superficially sexiest human being ever—might be the exception to this rule. One day I will shag him and find out. But until then, America, why hold out for the occasional glass of Cristal when you can get blasted every night on perfectly acceptable house red? Aim low and be happy.

A brief, incomplete rundown of our current aural fixations

The White Stripes


Elephant

Because I'm in a rock 'n' roll state of mind. And because the sad reality is that, with a few exceptions, there hasn't been anything produced in that vast genre worth listening to since Elephant's seismic release in 2003.

When the only other options are sterile bands like My Chemical Romance and The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, I'd rather bide time with The White Stripes until something worthwhile explodes on the scene again.

Cowboy Junkies


At the End of Paths Taken

I keep falling for the juicy promise that the Timmins family will push their talent further and produce something that stays true to their haunting previous 10,000 CDs but somehow be ... fresh. Wrong again. More of the same: deep, painful songs that leave you either contemplative or ready to hurl yourself over the dam, quick-like. Margo's dark, sultry vocals still make you swoon, but the tired topic of life sucking is a real drag.

Redman


Muddy Waters

As a fan of the Funk Doctor Spot, I should be forced to smoke some low-grade weed for preferring this 1996 album over his current release. But funk what ya heard, this was his best work. Over Erick Sermon beats that harken to his EPMD days, hip-hop's former Mr. Consistency brings the lyrical ruckus (faves include "It's Like That" and "Do What You Feel") and the funny, with hymns to weed and skits on gold-diggers. It doesn't get any Redder than this.

Because nothing speaks to the modern condition like old cop shows

The Untouchables: Season 1, Vol. 1 ($38.99, 3 stars) You wouldn't know to watch it now, but The Untouchables was pretty hot stuff in its time. Based on the memoirs of gang-buster Elliot Ness, the ABC series came under immediate fire for its willingness to punctuate nearly every scene with bullets. Naturally, the controversy helped fuel the show's success. Included in this new-to-video package is the original two-part miniseries, The Scarface Mob, that launched the series. The 14 episodes from the inaugural 1959-60 season are representative of what made The Untouchables must-see television: a distinctive noir look, incorruptible heroes, legendary villains, dirty cops and politicians, nonstop action, popular guest stars and above-par writing and direction. Never mind that the exploits of Robert Stack and his merry band of hard-boiled G-men bore no relation to the historical record.