A Meditation on Desperation and False Promises
So there I was, standing in the liquor store on Sunset, staring at this Jim Beam Dodgers 750ml bottle (click that link to see what i’m talking about). Big blue letters screaming “COLLECTIBLE” right there on the label. And I thought to myself, Christ, when did we get so goddamn obvious about it?
See, here’s the thing about collectibles that most people don’t understand because they’re too busy getting excited about owning something “special.” Real collectibles don’t announce themselves. They don’t need to. A 1952 Mickey Mantle rookie card doesn’t have “COLLECTIBLE!” printed across the top. A first edition Hemingway doesn’t come with a sticker that says “SAVE THIS FOR YOUR GRANDKIDS!”
The good stuff, the stuff that actually matters twenty years down the line, it just sits there quietly, accumulating value like dust on a windowsill. Unnoticed until someone with half a brain realizes what they’re looking at.
But this Jim Beam bottle? This beautiful bastard with its Dodger blue and white, commemorating another season of overpriced beer and broken dreams? It’s screaming its collectible status like a drunk at 2 AM screaming about how much money he makes. Which is to say: the louder you have to say it, the less likely it is to be true.
And yet…
And there you are at 11 PM on a Tuesday, staring at your “investment” and thinking, well, it’s still Jim Beam, isn’t it?
And yet there’s something different about booze, isn’t there? See, most collectibles just sit there. Baseball cards stay in plastic sleeves. Coins live in little folders. Stamps get locked away in albums. But whiskey? Whiskey has this beautiful, tragic flaw: it’s made to be consumed.
You can tell yourself you’re saving that Jim Beam Dodgers bottle for when it’s worth something. You can put it on a shelf, maybe even buy two – one to keep, one to drink, like some kind of alcoholic hedge fund manager. But life has a way of wearing you down. Bad day at work. Relationship falls apart. Dog dies. Rent’s due and the bank account’s looking thin.
And there you are at 11 PM on a Tuesday, staring at your “investment” and thinking, well, it’s still Jim Beam, isn’t it?
That’s when the desperation kicks in. Not the screaming, dramatic kind of desperation. The quiet kind. The kind that whispers, “Nobody’s going to pay $200 for this thing anyway. Might as well drink it.”
And maybe that’s the real genius of putting “COLLECTIBLE” on a bottle of booze. The company knows exactly what they’re doing. They know that unlike a coin or a stamp, this collectible has a built-in self-destruct mechanism. It’s not just an investment – it’s an escape hatch. A way out when things get tough.
So while the baseball cards and comic books pile up in storage units across America, slowly losing value as the generation that cared about them dies off, these bottles get consumed. One moment of weakness, one bad night, one “fuck it” moment, and boom – the supply gets a little smaller.
Maybe that bottle really will be worth something someday. Not because it’s inherently valuable, but because most people couldn’t resist drinking their way through their retirement fund.
The Dodgers will win some games, lose some games, break some hearts, give some hope. Same as always. And that bottle will sit on shelves across America, waiting. Waiting for that moment when collectible becomes consumable, when investment becomes medication, when hope becomes just another thing you swallow.
In the meantime, I bought a regular bottle of Jim Beam. No team logo, no special label, no promises about the future. Just bourbon and the certainty that I’ll drink it before the week’s out.
Sometimes the most honest thing in the store is the one that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is.
Carlos Bukowski writes about collecting, drinking, and the intersection of both from his apartment in Hollywood. His collection consists mainly of empty bottles and full ashtrays.
