Post Mortem

Originally Posted Friday, August 15, 2014

I went out last night and met a friend and her sister for drinks.  It was the sister's birthday.  I had never met her.  The bar was a nice one, one of my favorites, and I was anxious to get its version of the Old Fashioned.  Their's is bacon infused.  They chill it with one solid ice cube a bit smaller than the inside of the glass.  The drink doesn't get as diluted that way.  It is an expensive cocktail and is really a double.  I had three and some raw duck.  It seemed raw.  I couldn't eat it, but it didn't go to waste.  My friends ate it with relish.  Well, not "relish."  There were some brightly colored sauces on the plate. They ate with gusto.  I had some tempura tacos instead.  That was it.  I'd come straight from the gym.  My recipe for fun is to work out, don't drink water, have three double Old Fashioneds, eat very little, then go home and have a couple scotches. 

I woke to the sound of thunder.  It went on and on until I was no longer certain it was thunder.  It couldn't be thunder.  Surely they were tearing down houses in the neighborhood.  I thought of the riots in Missouri, of the Ukraine, of the Middle East (all of it, every cursed fucking inch of it).  Perhaps I was just making it up, hearing things. 

I didn't get up until eight.  Called in sick.  Decided to quit drinking. 

It was a fun night, however.  The sister was a bartender.  She taught the servers at the bar how to fold a napkin properly for setting a table. 

She had a talent.

When I finally rose, I opened the (new) shutters to look outside.  The sky was blue as blue could be.  It couldn't have been thunder. 

Now the skies are dark and preparing to burst.  I woke last night to the sound of thunder.  How far off I sat and wondered.  Quote/unquote. 

I got a text as I made coffee.  I have never liked to chat in the morning.  I like mornings to be quiet.  That is the best thinking time for me, the absolute best of the day, even if I am liverish.  I so informed. 

I read the news.  Oh, boy.  My mind is a miasma of old song lyrics.  I know this to be a bad sign.  It is the onset of old age dementia.  I'll be reduced to communicating in limericks and jingles. 

"See that old guy over there?  No, the shaky one.  Go ask him something.  It doesn't matter what, just ask him something.  Do it!  It's funny, you'll see." 

"Hey old timer, do you know how to get to the Met?"

"Double your pleasure, double your fun, with double good, double good, Doublemint gum." 

What the fuck is up with Jessica Lange? 

A stormy day off.  I'm sure to get much done.