Prostitution and the military; they kind of go together like peanut butter and jelly, don't they? I don't recall if it was illegal on Okinawa but if was the authorities turned a blind eye. And unless you caught some disease the brass turned a blind eye, too. But the girls were usually subtle in a charming kind of way, polite in their approach. Market forces were at work; prices were highest immediately after payday and then declined as the next payday approached. You could get a hefty discount a few days before you got paid and the only time this system got thrown out of whack was when the fleet was in and the area was flooded with sailors who had a lot of money to spend and a short time to spend it in. Regular GIs couldn't compete against all that wealth so we didn't bother until things returned to normal. Good times.
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Recollections of "The Rock" (Okinawa) reminded me that the first time I drank a whiskey sour was in a little jazz bar in Koza City. It may have been off-limits to GIs because it didn't have an "A" sign on the door, something I may have described earlier. The bartender was taken aback when I entered because I was the first American to visit his fine establishment. Since the name of the place was Club Chelsea, plainly displayed in English, I figured I would be welcome, and I was. There were only about six stools at the bar and a small handful of tables; twenty people would have packed the place. But there was a turntable behind the bar and they played nothing but jazz, a welcome change from the raucous rock and roll played at the more American-friendly bars and clubs. The bar was my little secret, not seeing any other Americans at any time I was there. I finally broke down and told a buddy of mine about the place, swearing him to secrecy, because it got old not having anyone to talk to besides the bartender. That worked for a while until some other Americans saw us go into the place and then the cat was out of the bag. Okinawan customers became fewer and fewer and the damn Yankees took over. A year later Led Zeppelin was on the turntable and it never was the same. Whole Lotta Love, my ass. Although business for the bar was booming I've never forgiven myself for ruining the place.
But about that whiskey sour; it was made completely from scratch. Fresh lemon juice, sugar, whiskey, and a whole lot of shaking (with ice) going on. Then more shaking and then straining and finally the addition of the orange slice and cherry. The result was sublime but you couldn't be in any hurry.
Curiosity drove me to Wikipedia to see if there is a definitive recipe for the whiskey sour, and there isn't any. Right off the bat you have a choice between bourbon and rye, and it goes on from there. I don't know about the usage of egg whites, though. Sounds a little too goofy for my taste. According to some professional bartenders, mixologists if you will, there is a lot of wiggle room when it comes to making the drink.
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Just when I thought I was done blabbing about the nature of the hot dog I found this curious site, Existential Comics. It's not often that Wittgenstein is mentioned in a discussion of the lowly hot dog. Previous comics include a lot of philosophers I've never heard of but the concepts are interesting. Whether or not those concepts are portrayed accurately I can't say but the comics are funny in their own way. Not enough comics discuss philosophy but I'll take what I can get.
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