I’m alone, savoring a celebratory glass of Irish whiskey I’ve kept in a crystal wine decanter, the kind I used to come across in the priest rectory of St. Patrick’s, where I was an altar boy and went to school from first to eighth grade. When I was 13, I remember my best buds and I would sneak swigs of the sweet red wine just before mass and the priest consecrated it into the Blood of Christ.

Those early tastes blossomed into ragers during Friday night sleep overs at my homie RC’s house on the Beach. If you grew up in Miami before 1980, you call Miami Beach the Beach. That’s how we call it. You told someone you’re heading to the Beach, that means you’re heading east over the McArthur, Venetian, Julia Tuttle or John F. Kennedy causeways.

RC had this little efficiency in the back of his house that we turned into our booze den. We called it La casita since it came equipped with a bed, toilet and sink, air conditioning unit and mini kitchen. We’d sneak a bottle of his dad’s Desmond & Duff or Johnny Walker Black into La casita once RC’s mom went to sleep. His dad would take off for his weekend card games. We’d play poker and black jack while pounding scotch on the rocks and smoking Marlboro Reds or Winston 100s like we were a bunch of Latin goombahs waiting to go on a coke run via Government Cut.

We’d get wasted halfway through the bottle, babbling about which girls in our class were growing the biggest boobies, farting up a storm, betting pennies, and cracking jokes about my grandfather’s porn collection – which included a rare hardcore Traci Lords epic called “The Pleasure Party.” The best scene in that skin flick came right before Traci boned the main porn stud. She invites him over to her “Fuckaware Party.” He incredulously asks, “a Fuckaware Party? What’s that?” She’s like, “Oh it’s like a Tupperware Party, but with fuck toys.” Of course, he’s all in once she explained it.

I always had a hard time holding my shit together during the whiskey binges. I distinctly recall puking up guayaba pastries one particular night. But I didn’t seem to care since I cackled hysterically the entire time I was wiping up my own wretch.

Whiskey and my adolescence have quite the history. At my cousin’s Quinceñera, I stole a bottle of Johnny Walker from the bar – not knowing the videographer actually caught me sticking the bottle into my white tux jacket. I went out to the parking lot where I shared Johnny with the other dudes who danced in the procession. But none of them pounded Johnny like me. My final recollection was my mom finding me in the parking lot, cussing me out, and slapping me a few times across the face. She yelled: “Boracho! Asqueroso! No te da verguensa!?!”

At that point, my sloppy drunk ass couldn’t comprehend shame. As the years have passed, I’ve never lost my appreciation and respect for a fine whiskey. I certainly savor every sip of Balvenie when I come across it. And Lord knows if there is a bottle of Jameson’s at a holiday house party, don’t be surprised if I start a chant glorifying the greatest dessert of the Holiday season:

“CHEESECAKE!!” “PUMPKIN PIE!!!” “CHEESECAKE!!!” “PUMPKIN PIE!!!”

In fact, I revere Jameson’s the same way Catholics revere the Blood of Christ. After all, it’s the only whiskey that makes you strong enough to kill a Leviathan!