Shaken, yet stirred

NEVER MUCH had a taste for alcohol, though I’ll have a watery cocktail or two at a holiday party when the occasion demands. Besides, I’m boring enough sober. After too many drinks, I tend to blather on without breathing, just droning something about the health advantages of blueberries, or the best place to buy propane, till I see the eyes roll back into my victim’s head.

I once almost killed a man in Van Nuys with incessant talk about the best way to breed canaries. He came out of his coma days later, only after nurses promised I’d never speak to him again.

“ ‘Nother drink?” asks my buddy Don.

“Sure,” I say.

Don is pouring martinis. I hate martinis, except for the pink ones Don makes, which I hold self-consciously as pretty wives in Christmas sweaters discuss “Brokeback Mountain” in the kitchen.

“I’d go see it,” says Kelly.

“Why?”

“Two good-looking naked men?” she says. “Why not!”

Kelly says this a little loud. She looks like Sharon Stone, so people generally agree she can talk as loud as she likes. She is one of two TV anchor people at this party, the maximum allowed under most municipal codes.

“I’ll see it with you,” says my buddy Bill.

“I’ll go,” says one of the sweatered wives. “Nothing wrong with good-looking men.”

Being a good-looking man, I move on. I look for a spot in the flow of traffic, because I’ve been to holiday parties before. If you’re not careful, you can get pinned to a wall by the wrong person and be stuck for hours. Ever notice how some people never have to use the bathroom? They have the bladders of Zeus and can hold on for days. Not me. I like to go about every 10 minutes.

“How are the kids?” someone asks.

“What kids?” I say.

“Your kids,” he says.

Oh, them. One just got a job with a big PR firm, I say, and another is a finalist for the Nobel Prize. My younger daughter, the ninth-grader, will be playing first base for the New York Yankees in the spring, and the toddler shows signs of literary genius. On the computer, he types the letter W over and over again. WWWWWWWWWW. Like that. I explain that W might be the most important letter in the English alphabet. Certainly our most important consonant. That and the lowercase j.

“And don’t forget the dollar sign,” I say.

“Um, I have to find a bathroom,” the guy says and vaporizes into the crowd.

“Another drink?” Don says, then starts pouring before I can answer.

I don’t know who put him in charge. Just because he lives here doesn’t mean that he gets to tell everybody what to drink and stuff. He struts around the kitchen like a Cuban band leader, shaking his stainless steel martini shaker, or whatever it’s called.

“You know, alcohol doesn’t really affect me,” I explain to Don.

“Quick, what’s your name?” he asks.

“Debbie.”

“You’re doing fine,” he says.

Did I mention I dislike martinis? Except for the pink ones Don makes.

They are like little vodka candies. Whew, there’s a wall. Steady

Haven’t eaten. Need to eat. Hmmmm, those crackers look good. Or are they coasters? I don’t care. I eat more than I can chew, then wash them down with more of this delicious pink stuff.

Moderation in everything, that’s my motto. Except love. And pink drinks.

And crackers. A discerning gentleman can be obsessive about certain things. I love crackers. And the letter W. I’m pretty sure I can walk home from here.

“You OK?” someone asks.

“Who are you?”

“Your wife.”

“Hi, I’m Debbie,” I say, shaking her soft, manicured hand.

It is a small, pink hand, delicate as a martini glass. I hold it for a long time. It seems to comfort her, though she keeps as far apart as you possibly can from a man who is holding your hand and trying to drink from it.

“That’s not a glass,” she finally says.

“It’s not?”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she finally says.

“You’ll be back?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says.

Yeah, sure. That’s OK, I can walk home from here. But where am I exactly?

And who did I come with? Did I bring a jacket? Who’s this Don guy? And the woman whose hand I was just sipping.

“You OK?” someone asks.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.

I am in the bathroom now, writing this on a doily. Or is it my thigh? Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to make the best of a holiday party.

It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.