The suicide slushie is classic Americana. It's also one of my most vivid memories of childhood summers spent at a campground on Clear Lake in Milton, Wisconsin. My family began this tradition by camping in a tent when I was too young to have memories; we upgraded to a pop-up camper with electric and water hookups when I was eight or nine; by the time I reached early adolescence, we'd hit the big time with a three-season trailer, an aluminum shed, a golf cart and a permanent fire pit. It wasn't until early adulthood that I realized how lower-middle class the whole experience was. But I digress.
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One of the things I remember most about this quintessential time is the Slush Puppie machine in the general store and arcade -- the triumphant sense of joy that came from filling my plastic cup to the brim with every flavor available, resulting in a purplish-brown color and limey-raspberry flavor. Along with candy cigarettes that spewed fake smoke, arcade quarters pilfered from parental pants pockets and the occasional live crawfish deposited in my sister's bunk, suicide slushies seemed awesomely rebellious and infinitely cool.
It's little wonder, then, that as an adult, I get a childlike thrill from what I have inductively titled "the suicide pitcher." Many bars prepare such potions -- usually concocted with heavy pours of various booze and an oil drum's worth of pineapple juice -- and serve them in fishbowls, sand pails or other creative containers. Most come with strange names (think Scorpion Bowl, Bionic Beaver), scads of long, colorful straws, and some sort of admonishment about not trying to slay the beast alone. At Govnr's Park (672 Logan Street), the 64-ounce suicide mission is called "The Cheesman" and comes with the following jokeloric explanation: "Kinda like the park...You never know what to expect." Created with "rums, juices, vodkas and whatever else is handy," this mega-mixer is "designed for multiple partners." Just like gay sex! Hilarious!
Despite these undertones of homophobic humor, my friends and I ordered a Cheesman on a recent Saturday-night visit to Govs', and were disappointed when the super solution -- which is advertised as being served in a fishbowl -- arrived in a forty-ounce pitcher. Even worse than the loss of 24 ounces was the fact that we were being charged the full $11.25 price. Still, we dove right in, calling straw colors and passing the pitcher around the table until we'd slurped every ounce of awesomeness from the edges of the ice cubes. Typically, we regard these suicide pitchers as the equivalent of group shots, complementary to the drinks we're already holding. But as we guzzled back $3 domestic tall beers (22 ounces) and $4 imports during Govs' late-night happy hour, waiting for life to get a little more electrifying, nothing happened. And here's why: The Cheesman is delicious, but it's weak.
Like the suicide slushie -- with its face-contorting sourness and brain-freezing numbness -- the suicide pitcher, if prepared correctly, should invoke a sense of grossness. Rums and vodkas and juices and beer should be mixed haphazardly, and with reckless abandon, and the result should be the alcoholic equivalent of fourteen flavors of sugary syrup all mixed together over watery ice cubes. The concoction should sting when it goes down and remind you of how awesomely rebellious and infinitely cool you are. It should not bend you over.
That's what Cheesman Park is for.
