One Extreme

I was up late last night and slept late this morning.  Very, very late for me.  But it's all O.K.  I sustained no physical and only slight emotional damage on my evening with the boys.  The worst of it was that I was out of most liquors including good whiskeys when the fellows came over.  I had forgotten that I had finished off the scotch the night before after sushi, and I didn't know we were meeting at my house until a few minutes beforehand.  I was drinking a Campari and soda when they came over, so I got a razzing then.  But not having whiskey to offer. . . I felt like the trailer park hillbilly I am.  

Whatever.  

We went to dinner at the good Mexican place.  Our favorite barmaid was mixing our drinks.  The boys had opted for tequila at my house, so we stuck with that.  The first spicy skinny Margarita was good.  Then the barmaid bought us a round of tequila shots.  I was good with that, but Tennessee ordered another round of Margaritas.  Emily makes them especially strong.  I've watched her make them double tequilas and then drop in an extra shot just for us.  But what was to be done.  The boys were ready to bounce but I still hadn't finished my drink.  Ridicule ensued, but Emily, to save the day, put my drink in a go cup.  You can't do that here.  It is illegal.  She's a hell of a gal. 

"Bring your sippy cup, sissy boy.  Let's go!"

I had never been to this arena before.  It is much bigger than the last one.  Fancier, too.  We had a box with our own waiter.  We were not among the throng.  We sat in office chairs in front of desks.  We were above and far away from the ring.  We would not be splattered with blood nor catch any flying teeth.  We wouldn't hear the gnashing of bone nor the wailing of injured gladiators.  When the fights began, I tried to look down upon the action, but the better way was to watch the giant screen in front of us.  It didn't matter to me, really.  The fights were just like UFC fights.  It was bare knuckle, but it didn't make much of a difference.  They kicked.  They grappled.  And these were not premiere fighters.  The boys, ADHD as they are, were locked into their phones half the time.  This morning, I saw that they were on a group text.  Kids and their toys, I guess.  

The final fight of the night was for the 1st "World Champion."  I laughed.  The two fighters were each 40 yrs. old, well past their UFC prime.  Still, it was the most competitive fight of the night.  

"Stop at the liquor store on the way home so I can get some scotch."

"What time do they close?"

"What time is it?"

"11:30."

"Are you shitting me?  They're closed."

But there was an old package store that had been renovated after the owner died and his family sold the place.  I hadn't been in the old place more than a few times and never the new one, but I knew that I would be paying double the price for a bottle. 

When we pulled up, the place was packed.  It was a young crowd, nothing like the old one which was made up of shaky alcoholics.  

"Just drop me off here and I'll run in," I told Tennessee.  Car guy jumped out to go with me.  In the old days, you had to sit on crates and boxes of liquor if you couldn't get to the bar.  Not now.  It was definitely a hipster bar.  We bumped our way to the bartender.  

"Can I get a bottle of Glen Fiddich?"

She pointed to a shelf.  

"This is what. . . ."  

I couldn't hear the rest of what she said, but a shelf full of bottles didn't have any scotches.  Car guy was pissed.  

"C'mon," he hissed.  "Let's go."  

He was fairly steaming.  He was truly hot.  I thought something I hadn't seen had happened, and maybe it did, but I know he couldn't stand the crowd.  It looked pretty fun to me.  Hmm.  I guess it was outside his comfort zone.  

We were back to my house by midnight.  I was in bed by one.  

Hell of a tale, right?  The night was O.K. but there was little to nil that was memorable.  

This week I have to switch gears.  There is a big factory crowd party and I have to get Woke.  I have to change languages, smile passively rather than grin with menace.  I am going to the schizophrenic extreme.  

Such is my so-called life.  Raging capitalists and sulking socialists.  I know them well.  I know them both.  There is no middle ground, no place where they will find common cause.  

Where do I belong?  I'll tell you what I think.  Were I to choose my social life, it would be among the museum and gallery crowd, cocktails in the lobby, cocktails on the roof.  A small jazz trio.  Or maybe a night in the loft offices of The Paris Review in Plimpton's time, or maybe an actual Paris cafe scene.  Books, art, music, and all that loveliness.  But hiking and skiing in Schruns and bullfights in Madrid, too.  And maybe a night at the fights.

I guess I am a bit schizophrenic at that.  

The morning is slipping away quickly.  I need to post and look to the day.  But how?  I haven't thought it through yet.  I haven't really thought much at all.  

Let's put on some music and get this day started.  Let's get this day begun.