The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 11
Of Mice and Gin'
De Secunn Pahht
(see Part 1) ...Like the guy said in "Kill Bill Volume 2", Superman is unique among all the Super Heros (at least for illustrating his rather lame point) because he was born Superman and always is Superman. Clark Kent is a disguise Superman wears that reflects his take on the foreign society in which he must hide. That's the way it became for Gin, except kinda the other way around. Ginny became "Jersey Gin" all the time and only assumed the disguise of "Uptown Gin" when she had to hide. One might think it sorta confusing and even a little metaphysical, but believe me that's the way it was, so there you go. Anywho, the point is Ginny's reborn spirit continued to flourish in New Jersey's rich soil, even with all the heavy metals.
As is common in life, it was often the smaller things that lifted her the highest. One delight for Ginny was the "inside" knowledge that hardly anyone in Jersey really pronounces it as "Joisey." Also she relished going to the Jersey shore, slipping her feet into a stout pair of combat boots and walking amongst the medical waste and Haz-Mat bags that washed ashore. And she loved driving through Camden in a very expensive car; she even bought a Glock .45 with plenty of ammo. Such secret delights helped Ginny feel like she really was on the inside looking out at all the numbnuts who didn't know Jersey.
And in this way she lived in Nirvana for several months.
Episode V - "The Empire Strikes Back"
The plot against Gin spawned when two of her acquaintances ran across each other near the stuffed Mastodon at the Guggenheim and compared notes on her in the ensuing conversation. One, the middle-aged wife of a hedge fund GP, related how she had heard Gin humming "Volare" during a shared Hamptons weekend. The other, a former private school classmate who thought her subsequent education at Bard wasn't Bolshevik enough, mentioned seeing Ginny in a deli just off the Park buying an assortment of Italian cold cuts and wearing an oddly patterned blouse that must have come off the rack at JC Penny.
That was all it took. The school of sharks had noticed one of their number moving erratically and Ginger's fate now was as inalterable as the certain swift destruction of that nonconforming fish. Ginny was born to and circulated in a stratum of American society that takes a dim view of variation from the current party line and is noted for using their money to relentlessly pound a square peg until it fits the round hole. Making everyone toe their particular line is one of their hobbies... and only the Hollywood Establishment does it better. The details for remediation of the problem solidified quickly during debate by the interested parties as a sidebar at the next Junior League meeting. The action plan was reviewed and blessed as an "Other Business" agenda item in a conclave of the Lincoln Center Board of Directors.
Ginny had a secret pleasure she only rarely allowed herself. She would daringly ditch her uptown alter ego while still in Manhattan, sneak into Jersey, and drive the length of the NJ Turnpike, all the way down and back. She stopped at every rest area to shop the marvelous treasures, all inscribed with the magic words "Garden State", and to mix with the wonderful people found there (she also loves Roy Rogers). She turned off at each exit to ensure she hit every tollbooth and contributed her fair share for this wonderful highway that has waged a noble and selfless struggle over the last 50+ years to pay for itself via the meager tolls.
One night, on returning to her Upper East Side apartment from one of these Turnpike pilgrimages, Ginny stepped through her doorway and turned on a light. Distracted by her vigorous "peepee dance" as she impatiently removed several hair extensions and the huge earrings dangling to her shoulders, Gin didn't notice the others present as they rose from their seats and moved toward her like ghouls from "Dawn of the Living Dead." Finally getting the stubborn back off the last earring, Gin turned to confront an unexpected rush of faces and unleashed a scream that shattered several Waterford crystal goblets in a kitchen cupboard. Recovering quickly, Gin realized that the apparent apparitions were merely some of her closer friends and acquaintances. Without waiting for an explanation (she really had to go bad), she rushed to the toilet to relieve that stridently throbbing urge in a sweetly satisfying stream.
Her emission completed, Gin cracked open the bathroom door and peered with a single blinking brown eye at the visitors, who now sat facing her refuge in a semicircle of folding chairs borrowed from the nearby Episcopal Church. In a soothingly singsong voice the spokesperson, who oftentimes had a heavy dusting of powdery white substance on her upper lip, explained that this assembly was an intervention on Gin's behalf over concern for her recent self destructive behavior. The group then gently urged her out of the bathroom and eventually Gin stood before them, still dressed in skintight pinto-pattern Lycra Capri pants, hot-pink sequined tube top and high-heel clogs with buckle bedecked faux-leather uppers.
Needless to say, Ginny was subjected to the litany usual at such events. She was injuring herself by sneaking off to the toxic dump across the river and by wearing animal print garments on clearance from God knows where. She was hurting others with bizarre behavior, including talking as with a mouth full of equal parts marbles and Play-Doh and consuming unsuitably spiced foods. She must assess and modify her ways or she quickly would end her days fretting over her credit rating and the repo-man. And Ginger had to listen and obey. Though nobly born, she had no more control than Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, Mary Tudor or innumerable other victims of their own upper strata.
Epilogue
Like the Titanic, Jersey Gin struck an iceberg, upended on her bow and slid into an abyss. But there remained flotsam to mark her passage. In particular, Ginger waited until the uproar subsided, then indelibly registered her quiet defiance by having a particularly sensitive and secreted portion of her person prominently tattooed with the words "Bada Bing."
As is common in life, it was often the smaller things that lifted her the highest. One delight for Ginny was the "inside" knowledge that hardly anyone in Jersey really pronounces it as "Joisey." Also she relished going to the Jersey shore, slipping her feet into a stout pair of combat boots and walking amongst the medical waste and Haz-Mat bags that washed ashore. And she loved driving through Camden in a very expensive car; she even bought a Glock .45 with plenty of ammo. Such secret delights helped Ginny feel like she really was on the inside looking out at all the numbnuts who didn't know Jersey.
And in this way she lived in Nirvana for several months.
Episode V - "The Empire Strikes Back"
The plot against Gin spawned when two of her acquaintances ran across each other near the stuffed Mastodon at the Guggenheim and compared notes on her in the ensuing conversation. One, the middle-aged wife of a hedge fund GP, related how she had heard Gin humming "Volare" during a shared Hamptons weekend. The other, a former private school classmate who thought her subsequent education at Bard wasn't Bolshevik enough, mentioned seeing Ginny in a deli just off the Park buying an assortment of Italian cold cuts and wearing an oddly patterned blouse that must have come off the rack at JC Penny.
That was all it took. The school of sharks had noticed one of their number moving erratically and Ginger's fate now was as inalterable as the certain swift destruction of that nonconforming fish. Ginny was born to and circulated in a stratum of American society that takes a dim view of variation from the current party line and is noted for using their money to relentlessly pound a square peg until it fits the round hole. Making everyone toe their particular line is one of their hobbies... and only the Hollywood Establishment does it better. The details for remediation of the problem solidified quickly during debate by the interested parties as a sidebar at the next Junior League meeting. The action plan was reviewed and blessed as an "Other Business" agenda item in a conclave of the Lincoln Center Board of Directors.
Ginny had a secret pleasure she only rarely allowed herself. She would daringly ditch her uptown alter ego while still in Manhattan, sneak into Jersey, and drive the length of the NJ Turnpike, all the way down and back. She stopped at every rest area to shop the marvelous treasures, all inscribed with the magic words "Garden State", and to mix with the wonderful people found there (she also loves Roy Rogers). She turned off at each exit to ensure she hit every tollbooth and contributed her fair share for this wonderful highway that has waged a noble and selfless struggle over the last 50+ years to pay for itself via the meager tolls.
One night, on returning to her Upper East Side apartment from one of these Turnpike pilgrimages, Ginny stepped through her doorway and turned on a light. Distracted by her vigorous "peepee dance" as she impatiently removed several hair extensions and the huge earrings dangling to her shoulders, Gin didn't notice the others present as they rose from their seats and moved toward her like ghouls from "Dawn of the Living Dead." Finally getting the stubborn back off the last earring, Gin turned to confront an unexpected rush of faces and unleashed a scream that shattered several Waterford crystal goblets in a kitchen cupboard. Recovering quickly, Gin realized that the apparent apparitions were merely some of her closer friends and acquaintances. Without waiting for an explanation (she really had to go bad), she rushed to the toilet to relieve that stridently throbbing urge in a sweetly satisfying stream.
Her emission completed, Gin cracked open the bathroom door and peered with a single blinking brown eye at the visitors, who now sat facing her refuge in a semicircle of folding chairs borrowed from the nearby Episcopal Church. In a soothingly singsong voice the spokesperson, who oftentimes had a heavy dusting of powdery white substance on her upper lip, explained that this assembly was an intervention on Gin's behalf over concern for her recent self destructive behavior. The group then gently urged her out of the bathroom and eventually Gin stood before them, still dressed in skintight pinto-pattern Lycra Capri pants, hot-pink sequined tube top and high-heel clogs with buckle bedecked faux-leather uppers.
Needless to say, Ginny was subjected to the litany usual at such events. She was injuring herself by sneaking off to the toxic dump across the river and by wearing animal print garments on clearance from God knows where. She was hurting others with bizarre behavior, including talking as with a mouth full of equal parts marbles and Play-Doh and consuming unsuitably spiced foods. She must assess and modify her ways or she quickly would end her days fretting over her credit rating and the repo-man. And Ginger had to listen and obey. Though nobly born, she had no more control than Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, Mary Tudor or innumerable other victims of their own upper strata.
Epilogue
Like the Titanic, Jersey Gin struck an iceberg, upended on her bow and slid into an abyss. But there remained flotsam to mark her passage. In particular, Ginger waited until the uproar subsided, then indelibly registered her quiet defiance by having a particularly sensitive and secreted portion of her person prominently tattooed with the words "Bada Bing."
To Be Continued
