Vodka, whisky, gin. Scotch. Red wine, cognac, brandy--are you getting thirsty yet?--ale, rye. It all tastes good: on the rocks, with a splash, side of soda, shaken not stirred, triple olives, one of those nutritious little pearl onions, a double, neat, with a twist. Drink it up, let's have a drink: dry beer, wet beer, light and dark and needled beer. Oh parched, we drank the river nearly to its bed, at times, and were so numb a boulder on a toe was pleasant pain, all pain was pleasant since that's all there was, pain, and everything that was deeply felt, deeply, was not. Bourbon, white and pink wine, aperitif, cordial (hardly!), cocktail, martini, highball, digestif, port, grain punch--are you getting thirsty yet!--line them up! We'll have a drink and talk, we'll have a drink and sleep, we'll have a drink and die, grim-about-it-with-piquancy.... It was a long time on the waiting list for zero and I'm happy for the call out of that line to other less predictable, more joyful, slides to ride on home.