Cocktail Chatter Drink, Pay, Love: Rum and Coke by Ed Sikov News of my breakdown spread like an aging star’s belly; soon unflattering photos of me in Star would be on the horizon. I knew I’d become a public whack-job when some naked guy I didn’t know approached me in the gym locker room: “Hey, man – I’ve been through it. The guy who stole my dreamboy wasn’t obese – he just stank like... 

Cocktail Chatter Kahlua, Cream and Fiasco: The White Russian by Ed Sikov My cold lasted another week, so forget about literary reticence. Let the gross descriptions fly: Snot spewed out of my nose like raw scrambled eggs, only darker, more translucent, and graced by tiny bloblets of blood. My lungs hacked up a hocker so gray it could have come out of an old coal miner. When I wasn’t wiping smears... 

“Who is Lady Gaga?” I asked in imperfect innocence, thus driving the table of six to a jolting silence. They gaped at me. “What?” I shouted. Heads swiveled around the restaurant. I quickly regretted the stupid (and loud) joke. The maitre d’ came over. “I’m not well,” I explained, then beelined for the men’s room, attempted to take three Advil without water, gagged and threw up, washed... 

Cocktail Chatter In the Drink: Grappa vs. the Bellini by Ed Sikov “Let’s go to Italy,” Dan suggested out of the blue. “Yay!” I cried and jumped onto his lap. He was reading The Economist, which got badly crushed, and he spilled his seltzer, and I got chewed out. I’d never been to Italy, so to me, it was a dream-like country with 583 kinds of pasta (like strozzaprelli, or choked priests,... 

Cocktail Chatter The Scarborough Fair by Ed Sikov It’s very loud in the city – much louder than any Fire Island sound system blasting the recent archaeological discovery, Barbra Streisand. But I’ve kept a bit of my summer garden in preserved form, and it’s literally a tonic. Just before we left the beach house, I was seized with an overwhelming need to take something with me – something... 

Cocktail Chatter 1 Part October, 4 Parts American Musical Theater By Ed Sikov The late-summer doldrums had set in, and it was only 10 o’clock on Saturday morning. Robbie was entirely red from head to toe – hair, face, neck, chest hair (and the skin underneath), legs and feet. Ever arrogant, he’d accented his sunburn by wearing a pair of bright orange gym trunks with the word “PRIDE!” spelled... 

Cocktail Chatter They Hate Me. They Really Hate Me! by Ed Sikov I was trying not to take it personally. Really. OK, I was taking it personally. Why else had they all called to say they’d be at the house in time for dinner on Friday but no earlier? Therefore no cocktail hour(s). I admit it: I’m an out-of-control control freak. I was making a perfect meal: Bobby Flay’s barbecued salmon; Israeli... 

Cocktail Chatter Look, darling! A cocktail just for us! by Ed Sikov The puppies were in residence that weekend, which meant the rest of us gorged on calorie-free eye candy, since the boys were untouchable. The best we could do was smell them. Robbie had a distinct personal funk that shifted a little from day to day: top notes of salt water with middle notes of two rank men – Robbie and the previous... 

Cocktail Chatter Drag Not a Drag with Brass Monkeys by Ed Sikov The Labor Day drag party in Fire Island Pines is either a hilarious gender circus or a reason to blow some queen’s brains out. Drag is fabulous. It’s the sweating, stinking, drunken guys in wigs who brazenly stick their tongues in your ears that’s either a kick or a nightmare. It’s a party for Pines boys who’ve discovered the... 

Cocktail Chatter How’d Ya Like a Nice Planter’s Punch? by Ed Sikov “That’s the thing about Planter’s Punch,” Sal shouted over the din at BarHarbor one Friday evening as a crowd of guys holding sweaty dress shirts over their arms, not-so-fresh from the city, yelled remarks at each other while getting smashed on overpriced drinks. “What’s the thing?” I screamed back. Sal only seemed...