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It was almost (and i do mean "almost") a relief when the weekend came to an end... considering my blood alcohol reaching unaccustomed levels in the course of the past few days. Brain cells feeling a little pink, as of late. Saturday has been well chronicled, already. Peculiar, the workings of party dynamics. As I was about to lurch for the door, I got a look at the proceedings over my shoulder. In the kitchen (usually where I gravitate... check out Jonah Lewie's "You'll Always Find Me In The Kitchen At Parties")... the young Hipoisie, presided over by Biggles. The darkened diningroom, the scene of my personal self-destruction, the domain of dodgy ex-patriates. A subtle change in my modus operandi, but worth taking note. Waking up in the seclusion of my bed, with aforementioned rip-roaring headache, I was overcome by a craving for a spicy-hot Bloody Mary. By the time I'd ingested several cups of coffee, I painfully set about getting the house in order. Having no idea when Miss Jane was to reappear, I separated the clothes for washing, played Toots & the Maytals "It Must Be True Love" at high levels, attempted to drag a brush across my head (useless act, definitely a beret-day), and hunted for an appropriate getting-dirty outfit. One step outdoors...the low, grey ceiling almost got the better of me. Push On. Bloody Well, We Must Dig. Stopped for a pack of Camels and her usual tree's worth of Sunday papers. Scored a salmon spread bagel and a couple of muffins (for Monday breakfast) from the Jesusfreak coffeeshop... managing to escape salvation. Then, to the woods... to see what Saturday's frenzy accomplished. Surprisingly, plenty. As the sun managed to peek out, for the first time I could see where the road should logically travel... where the house should sit... where I want a garage. A revelation of sorts. On the way back down the hillside, at the base of the same tree where I saw him the day before, loitered a yellow-splattered box turtle (I haven't learned how to "sex" a turtle yet... coulda been a lady). As if unmoved in the past twenty-four hours. Howdy, neighbor-to-be. Knowing the outcome, I drove towards the pepper patches. Last week's frost laying waste to one (still giving up twelve pounds), the other untouched. At Slick Willies' house, vodka & tonic was offered and accepted. On top of one bagel. Oy, ve. Arriving back home, where Miss Jane was feverishly doing the laundry, I shamelessly built that Bloody Mary. And blew away the rest of the evening on Six Feet, Sopranos, and Bullitt (Steve McQueen. My hero). Bad Boy. A few days of sobriety looks pretty good, considering the alternative... my back turned on the deadly sin of Gluttony. Now, Lust rears it's head. So to speak. I'll go into that, tomorrow. I'm trying not to write a book, here! |
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