"Drunken Monkey"
Use a tall glass with ice
- 1 1/2 oz of Flor the Caña 7 años (rum from Nicaragua)
- 1 1/2 oz of Flor de Caña 4 años
- long pour mango juice
- short pour piña juice
- juice of 3 to 4 limes
- dash of grenadine
Garnish with a lime wedge
Use a tall glass with ice
- 1 1/2 oz of Flor the Caña 7 años (rum from Nicaragua)
- 1 1/2 oz of Flor de Caña 4 años
- long pour mango juice
- short pour piña juice
- juice of 3 to 4 limes
- dash of grenadine
Garnish with a lime wedge
The "last big novel" has already been published. According to Milan Kundera, who still doesn't give interviews but re-enters the literary scene in the year of his eightiest birthday with some essays, Garcia Marquez' "cientos años de soledad" was the apotheosis of the novel as such. Its proponents don't have children; they are the tragic end of their ancestral line. "Great stories" belong to the passed, according to Lyotard, it is time for a whole new kind of philosophy that plays around conscientiously with the broken mirrors of the old, something like that. But behold! They forgot about us. To be frank, I can't stand the boisterous arrogant bombast of the "ultimate", it makes me feel sick. And it's so wrong, too. Wasn't Aristoteles the last big theorist; wasn't Cervantes the last big novelist; wasn't Shakespeare the unsurpassable dramatist; wasn't Dante the ultimate Poet? And Bach the absolute musician? And yet, long after their deaths other giants have lived and died. Goethe, Schiller, Voltaire, Molière, Kant. Every epoch is its very own culmination and nothing else. What I'm worried about is that once upon a time a generation won't accept the change of guard. They'd rather kill their own offspring than accept that they are themselves just insignificant dust and not a royal pathway to anything higher.
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