I call it “the Viking”: essentially, it’s a premium vodka martini, moderately dirty, with a hunk of wine-marinated herring where the olives normally go. No other garnish is necessary. Unless you happen to have a helmet with horns. Incidentally, in certain sections of New York or San Francisco I fully expect some wag to replace the vodka with gin and call the revision either “the Little Dutch Boy” or “My

How on earth did you ever get to be 9-years-old.  Hell, this blog is older than you! At any rate — and knowing that one day when you’re old enough to Google your Dad and read all the decidedly nasty things people have written about him (along with the laudatory stuff, which may give you some comfort that you weren’t born of a complete monster), and as a matter of