I mean, it’s a fair question. This here blog’s my best shot at a straight answer. We’ll start with what I ask all of the musicians and guests here on the show.

Name: Allan Delgado

Occupation: Bartender

That’s right, I’m a bartender. Alotta people hate the word "Mixologist." I like it, but see why they might not. When people pay me to make menus for them, and stuff like that, that’s the word I use because it makes them feel much more comfortable with how much money they’re pissing away by hiring my snake-oil services. But otherwise, I’m a bartender. That means I proudly practice the world’s 3rd oldest profession- right behind tattooing and prostitution. So, I’m part whore, part artist. My art will never be fully appreciated by god-fearing people, which sounds just about right. Before I decided to grow up to make my parents weep, I was just like any other bright young American mind. I coulda been a firefighter, astronaut, even President. Well, now roughly anybody can work that last one.

So what made me wanna do this for a living, and how did it lead to me telling you why? Well, like most stories that run too long and try your patience, it all started in a bar… The Colonial in Long Island City was where my booze-virginity was lost, and my vocation found. The day after I turned 14 these two girls show up at my parents’ house on Long Island asking me if I know who they are. They look familiar, and being a beautiful pair of Latinas, they are definitely not from my white-bred neighborhood. I guess family. They tell me I’m right, and now, they’re gonna make a man outta me.

Next thing I know, I’m in a Nissan Z speeding down the LIE towards NYC. Destiny in the left-hand lane, pubescent anxiety in the back seat. These cousins of mine grew up fast and hard. Lived that way, too. And certainly drank that way. Now, in no way do I condone underage drinking, and I’d NEVER serve a minor. For all I know I could be Senator Delgado, Obama’s running mate, if they’d never invited me out for a drink. But, destiny doesn’t pay attention to laws of any kind. Neither does my fam. Next thing I know, I’m in this shanty Irish pub.

Before it’s interior became my regular background scenery, it was an exotic and strange place full of mystery- well, at least it smelled mysterious. The nasal cocktail of bleach, puke, smoke, and orange-cleaner had not yet been registered by my young nose. Little did I know I’d be able to tell how much it costs for a glass of Maker’s Mark by how strong that smell was a few years later. The bartender eyes me like he’s holding something back. As he approaches, he’s holding a glass. It’s empty. Is this how they deal with little kids trying to get their grubby lil’ paws on a drink? Bludgeon them with a glass? Then he gets closer with it. Closer… He asks me what it’s gonna be! He wants to fill it with booze. I wasn’t too bright, but I had a habit of astonishing myself and friends by rising to the occasion infrequently enough to astonish. I say I don’t drink much besides Bud and Jack at college, and wanna try something new. I say, “Gimme one of everything.” This moment in my life is the equivalent of Peter Parker’s spider-bite. This is Radioactive Man taking a nuke waste bath. This is where it all started.

I had one of everything. From Amaretto to Zubrowka. How I didn’t end up in NYU medical or Bellvue the next morning is still a mystery. The real damage was already done, anyway. I was damned to a lifetime of alcoholic curiosity. I’m still in the habit of telling people I’m in the mood for something different when they ask me what I’d like. Sometimes it results in a new cocktail they’ve been tinkering with. Sometimes I have a glass of wine from some varietal that Robert Parker’s probably never heard of. Sometimes I try some awful new novelty liqueur that has the exotic flavor of the Malayasian Dysenberry, or has a fancy bottle that lights up upon touch.

No matter the results, I continue to document the wide world of booze on what’s left of my stomach lining. And I invite you to join Matty and I while we do it. A guy who think the tender bar is the worst name for a book ever, Allan Delgado