A colleague whom I like and otherwise respect recently told me she’d attended a concert by [surpassingly detestable band*].
I declared this band “macabre.”
Puzzled, she asked if I meant “maudlin.”
Nope. I meant “macabre” as said by Anthony Blanche. That’s the epithet he uses to damn, and it indisputably deserves broader currency.
If you don’t know who Anthony Blanche is, do take sixty-seven seconds to watch him drink Brandies Alexander: one, two, three, four!
And if you don’t know who Brandy Alexander is, this article will happily acquaint you, even in July. I could use more friends like the author:
I shook up the first brandy Alexander I had made, or even drank, in years, and declared it my official house cocktail of that whole interminable winter. For the next few months, I took great pleasure in greeting visitors with a drink at the ready and my nutmeg grater in hand.
Funnily enough, the surpassingly unmacabre Feist has songs titled “1234” and “Brandy Alexander.”
*Honor forbids me to name the band, but I will say that its name has five letters, begins with “T,” and is a method of rail transportation.