I know what you did!

A trip down to Durban gave me the impression that our society ran out of names for things.  Gone are the days where we build a travel device, lie under a tree with a pie, and proudly announce half an hour later, "this is a car".  This is way too much trouble, as it requires thinking, so we string words together at random to identify new inventions.  Picture this scene...

Upon arrival, I glanced around the deck, familiarizing myself with the establishment and opportunities presented.  I then walked over to the Rasta-man in the dark corner and kindly asked, "I really fancy a Cherry Hooker?"  He developed a partial grin to the left corner of his mouth and replied, "That is not possible tonight".  I reconsidered my options and announced, "Sex on the Deck then?"  He scanned the deck, intensely studying the people scattered around, and then replied "I'll recommend Sex on the Beach, it will suit you better?"  I agreed to this.

If I would cut the story here and present to my wife for proof reading, I'd be sure all hell would break loose.  She would go on for some seconds about this type of behaviour, after only one night stay in Durban, before she kicked me out.  The consequences would be even worse of she were in the kitchen, armed with a meat cleaver.  But she would be wrong.

I had no intention of giving in to feeble behaviour; these are all cocktails in a seaside bar called Joe Cool.  An innocent discussion to quench a thirst, overheard by the wrong person, could have me starring up to a dimming moon out of my, not very comfortable, shallow grave.

Since I only had the one drink, my analysis of the drink to find the link between appearance, taste and name was limited.  There were none.  I struggled half way through the drink just figuring out how to conduct the evaluation and even that was impossible.

Then I summonsed over Rasta-man.  I figured, as the creator of these exotic items, he would hold the keys to their meaning.  I asked him about the name and drink, and waited for the explanation.  He was stunned at the question, and in an instant I could see it did not make sense to him either.  The smile took 30 seconds to drain from his face, and then twisted his nose into a question mark - that was quite an achievement.  Later in my room I tried to do the same, but realized that this must be a special skill taught at level 3 in Rasta school.  My thinning mane however, will ensure that I do not make the cut for entry.  Thus realizing I am damned with underdeveloped nasal ability, I will return to the main story here.  Rasta-man said, “I got this from a book, the name, ingredients, presentation method and all”.  He offered no further intellectual material to ponder over, only this bland statement.  I was obviously glad that he could read, but thought telling him so much would not help my situation.  My gaze went from his face down to the drink, and then a thought struck me.

Parents all over the world face the same problem.  What to call the fresh bundle of joy upon arrival?  It does need to be called something when you need to draw their attention; it is also a helpful reference if you need to fill in a form.  However, what qualifies your screaming pink foot to be called John, Graeme, or Ann?  Surely there are simple rules governed by sex, of the child, but even these get distorted nowadays.  What character traits need to be identified, and that most of the time prior to birth, before a proper name be bestowed on the helpless child?  This is impossible!  The only conclusion - call the child some recognizable arrangement of letters which is not too difficult to announce, with no regard of the child's ability or ambition.  Name and traits completely unrelated.

With cocktails there is the stray chance however that two bartenders in different locations have the same name for something with the same ingredients because they use the same recipe as reference.  With a bit of luck both Rasta-man and his ghost counterpart exhibited the discipline and attention span to follow the recipe, thus created the same taste and visual experience.  My cry is thus incorrectly directed to the bartender, it should be to the person writing up the recipes to have some discretion in concocting the name.  I am sure no one will have the foggiest idea how Sex on the Beach contained in glass relates to the suggested activity based on visual analysis or taste.  Why then this name?  Is it the last reminder of a historic even from an originator?  Now all of us can be exited, walking up to an unsuspecting bartender and force a smile with a simple request.

Lost to time is the name of the originator of the experience, but I am sure I know what he did, and what he drank.

Friday 31 May, 2013