Iqra’i

_{LEGAL DISCLAIMER: The knowledge of alcohol revealed in this post comes exclusively secondhand, gleaned from those who (unlike me) are over the age of twenty-one and can therefore drink legally. Really. I swear.}

While the Pomocon Worthies seem to have found common political cause in Left Conservative’s “decentralist manifesto,” I’ve gotten lost on the social-theory side of localism — especially the skepticism it requires toward modernity’s globalizing technologies, as my DTO piece hinted at and the ongoing lamentation of the death of the “local scene” illustrates.

But I suspect that I’ve finally resigned myself to being on the wrong side of history on that one (at least until the Internet becomes not only more personalized but more humanized). After all, it occurred to me the other day that if we were living a few hundred years ago, during the dawn of globalized trade, we’d probably be heralding the death of place by lamenting the demise of regional liquors. “How on earth will Russia still be Russia when anyone, anywhere can drink vodka?” we’d sigh. (Never mind that potato vodka itself was, of course, a fringe benefit of the Columbian Exchange.) “And who would be so boorish as to drink rum north of the Tropic of Cancer?”

Obviously, the global (or at least globalized) availability of various types of drink hasn’t shorn them entirely of regional character — after all, global markets require increased niche specialization, and a homeland can be repackaged as “brand heritage.” Vodka manufacturers seem to have come closest to tearing the roots from the bottle, taking advantage of their product’s lack of sensory identity to universalize it. (Remember the “In an Absolut World” campaign? And don’t get me started on the vodka martini…) On the other end of the scale are whiskeys — in a unique position anyway, given that each sub-variety has its own heritage — whose branding often not only embraces geography, but history and genealogy. I find the Canadian Club campaign tagline “Damn right your dad drank it” to make for pretty annoying ad copy, but it’s a good ilustration of how this plays out with regard to Canadian whiskey; and if the medicine-show packaging of Jim Beam wasn’t obvious enough to illuminate bourbon’s brand image, there’s always the down-market brand Rebel Yell.

And then there’s tequila, whose unique position in the phenomenology of globalized booze was revealed to me today on the bus ride home after I struck up a conversation in Spanish with a fellow passenger. (No, this isn’t standard practice on Minneapolis buses — Minnesota nice doesn’t go quite that far, thank goodness — but I appreciate every chance to practice my Spanish I can get these days.) An older white gentleman spent a few minutes staring at us, then leaned over and very deliberately said (in English) to my interlocutor: “Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me which is the best tequila?”

This is fairly telling on its own, at least for the process of association: Spanish-speaking –> Mexican –> tequila. But seeing the amused look on our faces, the gentleman (rather apologetically) attempted to justify his interruption, beginning “When I was in vacation in Cancun…”

The thing about globalization, you see, is that people turn out to be the most mobile things of all. This gentleman didn’t claim to be as informed about tequila as someone whose nationality suggested an intimate familiarity with it, but his taste for it was justified because he’d first tried it on its native soil as a tourist. But Cancun, of course, isn’t just a place but a scene, a year-round fiesta turistica — and tequila, when it is consumed in the States, is usually consumed as a vehicle for reckless abandon of the spring break variety. The relationship of drinker to drink is no longer one of heritage, but one of role.

The same can be said of most other spirits (again, vodka excepted): they’ve become both unique and accessible, their heritages collectible like souvenirs. WASPness can be accessed not just through marriage or surname, but through a glass of quality Scotch or a G&T. Anyone can walk into an Irish pub these days, but if you don’t at least order a pint of Guinness you’re not getting the proper “pub experience” and the boisterous, night-out-with-the-boys collegiality that phrase connotes. The list goes on.

Maybe it’s just that I and most of the drinkers I know are relatively young, and on the whole we haven’t settled into being “gin drinkers,” “bourbon drinkers,” etc. But it seems to me that those who have settled into those labels have done so because there’s a particular image they consistently wish to put forward. Welcome to the globalized world, where heritage is identity is commodity, and the only consistency is consumer choice.

But here’s the rest of the story: After listing his favorite brands of tequila, the hispanolhablante on the bus (who was in fact Mexican) turned to me and joked in Spanish about Minnesotans who thought they’d seen all of Mexico after visiting Cancun, Puerto Vallarta and Cuernavaca. He explained that he was pretty familiar with these places too, of course — after all, he’d seen them frequently when he worked as a bus driver for tourists like the man who’d just asked him for advice. When we advocate the real world as a means of creating genuine civic spirit, it’s necessary to remember that just because each participant can see the other doesn’t mean they’re on equal footing, and the power dynamics that play out are often the inheritance of global political economy. Just a note of caution.

Like so many other genies of modernity, this one couldn’t be put back in the bottle if we tried to do so, and we shouldn’t. But I think that the question of chosen versus unchosen identities/loyalties gets complicated by the promise of playing heritage that global liquor distributors make.

_{Most importantly, though, it means that John McCain’s promise to “veto every single beer” isn’t just a slip of the tongue or a mark of senility — it’s downright anti-American. The nativists are right, he is trying to destroy what’s left of our national heritage!}