"In Five Hundred Words. . . ."

 Blogger has changed.  Every time I want to post a photo now, I have to agree to some shit about cookies.  The entire process is different, and this morning, it is not allowing me to upload a photo.  I fear that one day, this entire blog will just be gone, and that would be a tragedy.  For me, anyway.  Year's of snapshot writing just gone.  I mean. . . I've become good at the timed writing, right?  

"In five hundred words or less, tell us about the significant aspects of last night's experience."

Oh, shit.  Given a topic, I guess I might be as bad as anyone.  Just hearing such a thing would tighten my sphincter.  

"Friday nights have long been a night of celebration.  After the stresses of the work week, people are ready to celebrate the weekend.  Even though I no longer work, the lure of a Friday night out still has its allure.  Last night, I met some friends at a local bar of some interest and distinction.  In this essay. . . ."

You know, in three ways or for three reasons.  Many people throughout history, etc.  

Holy smokes. . . it finally let me post a pic.  Blogger was probably scanning my hard drive for dirty pictures.  Anyway, as my mother likes to say, here is a snapshot of my Old Fashioned sitting on the bar yesterday at happy hour with the boys.  I've not run it through Photoshop as I would if I were trying to make it more distinct.  I just used Snapseed, a free phone app, to enhance it a bit.  Took less than a minute.  

Here is the illustration that the Times used today for their article an Old Fashioned recipe. 

I think I should be getting paid for my cocktail phone pics.  If I ran my snapshot through Photoshop, I'd really show these Bozos how it is done.  Who needs a camera?

My museum friend with whom I saw the infamous fake Basquiat exhibition says that one day the museum walls will be filled with my cocktail portraits.  

"On the left you will see the cocktail portraits of C.S.  On the right you can see the collection of pre-Columbian pottery."

It's an old joke.  The museum has pretty much always been a bust, never having anything worthy of a visit.  The one thing they always had plenty of, though, was pre-Columbian pottery.  It was on display year after year after year.  When the new museum director took over a couple years ago, however, they started having some really nice exhibits.  Now that all the big donors have left the museum after the scandal, it is going to be back to the pottery and some high school art competitions.  And, of course, my cocktail pics.  

I had told the boys I'd meet them for happy hour, but when the time came, I really didn't want to go.  I don't know if I caught a cold or if it was allergies, but I was sneezing off and on and full of mucus.  When I visited my mother, she gave me an antihistamine.  "May cause drowsiness.  Avoid alcohol.  Do not operate motor vehicles."

Well. . . this is just up my alley.  So I went to the bar.  The drug was kicking in as I hobbled across five lanes of traffic to get to there.  And I do mean hobble. My knee was swollen and tight and painful, but I made it across the highway with the assistance of some great and powerful divinity.  It was early.  The boys wanted to get there before the crowd got in so they could secure the corner of the big assed bar.  They did.  There was nobody else there.  And for an hour, I sat and drank with some fellows that were friends with the car guy who picks up the tab.  I had met most of them once long ago at the same bar, but I had passed on the chance to follow them back to one of their offices to snort coke and wrestle in our underwear.  That, at least, is my take on it.  Now I was making smalltalk with these same fellows.  After an hour, a few more people moseyed in including Tennessee and the Shock Jock.  Two old fashioneds and an antihistamine in, I was longing for my couch.  It was past dinnertime now, and I had hardly eaten all day, so I ran next door to the Mexican place and got a couple tamales.  I brought them back to the bar where the fellows kept picking out the pieces of pork for "a taste" so that I was left with corn meal and nothing.  Yum.  

I stayed a bit longer but was not drinking.  The boys were getting rowdy, some of them doing bumps now and then.  The coke must have been cut with baby laxative, though.  I told them about my trip to Peru where I was taken into an old Incan ruin where the cook who had made our chocolate marijuana cake had a pile of freshly minted cocaine.  It was 98% pure, never stepped on, and it seemed to be emanating its own light on the old table in that dim room.  I have never been a druggy, but I did a line with him just to see.  Pure coke does one thing--it numbs your head.  There is no speed to it, no jaw grinding.  You can just lie down and go to sleep if you like. It is nothing like the coke people buy from their dealers.  

So I said as fellows headed off to the bathroom with systems now full of baby laxative.  And with that, I was pretty much done.  I said I was bouncing, but Tennessee grabbed my arm.  

"Wait, let me finish my drink.  I'll walk out with you." 

When I saw him with a new Margarita a few minutes later, though, I said 'bye.  

"You're going with me to the street jazz festival tomorrow, right?"  

"Text me tomorrow," I said, not sure.  And with that I was limping across the highway once again.  

My two tamales did not make a meal, and I was feeling pretty hungry, but I didn't have much food in the house.  It was dark now.  I poured a scotch and lit a cheroot and headed to the deck to chill and think.  The night air was just starting to cool.  The street was quiet.  All around town, bars were starting to hop.  And there I sat on another Friday night. . . chilling.  I figured in another hour I would be in bed. 

I texted Sky.  She would have an early bedtime, too, as she was headed to Paradise Island the next day for a big catalog shoot.  Her alarm, she said, was set for 4 a.m.  She had a six o'clock flight.  We told one another we were beautiful and smart to be out of harm's way on a Friday night, and then goodnight.  I went inside and "freshened" my drink.  

Now I'll make a giant confession.  I've been reluctant to do it, but I can't keep it to myself.  After watching the first episode of "Yellowstone" and telling you all that it was a cliched piece of garbage, I got sucked into watching it again.  I am almost through Season Four.  And as bad as it is, there are some really smart lines.  I know, I know. . . I am a traitor to the Intellectual Cause, a Benedict Arnold to lefty liberals, but that's just me.  I'm not recommending the show to you, of course, but you know I have a great tolerance for things that will offend others--as long as there are no commercials.  

So with my freshened drink, I popped some popcorn and watched an episode of "Yellowstone."  I was enjoying my antihistamine buzz, and was beginning to fade before the end.  

In the town around me streets were beginning to throb.  Libidos run hot on a Friday night, ten boys for every girl with only the money men sure to score for there are plenty of hookers in the most expensive places.  Being a broke assed hillbilly, I am a denizen of the lesser hipster joints.  But not really.  Most nights, you can find me here at home.  

I had not heard from Q for days after Halloween and was worried that something bad had happened and he was in either a hospital or a jail.  But he finally sent a message.  Not a message, really, just a forwarded clip from TikTok or IG.  Enough, at least, to allay my worries.  He is probably just having too much fun.  

I got a text from CC, too.  After his three months on the road traveling the east coast, he is home.  The dog no longer knows him, he said, sending me a photo of the snarling beast.  

Travis and I have agreed that after long years of work we are Men of Leisure feeling no remorse at eating, reading, napping, and drinking.  We've gone around the world before the horde, before the IG and TikTok influencers ruined every sacred place they could get to.  There are still places to go, and he needs to round out his hundred country passport stamp collection, but no worries, no hurries.  

And so with everyone in place, I set up the coffee maker for the morning and headed to bed hopeful for the morning.  

"In conclusion. . . ."

I just did a word count.  Oops.  I went way over the "five hundred words or less" commandment.  I'll probably be made to revise.