Misplaced Weekend
My half-century-plus liver is way too old for this shit but that’s just how it worked out this Friday and Saturday evenings, as I consumed way more brown liquor than usual, ending up in bed both nights wearing an unusual amount of clothing, especially socks.
Friday, I met up at cocktail hour with my friend, Andrew Light, the noted environmental philosopher and as we conversed about everything from Elliot Spitzer to the Kyoto Protocol, I downed three Manhattan rockses, enjoying the view of the street from the window of Tini Biggs restaurant, a place that bills itself as the second-best cocktail lounge in Seattle. (I’m not sure what the best place is, but Tini’s probably has it beat when it comes to volume; the rocks glass that held my drink could have doubled as a soup tureen.) At this point, I thought we were done for the nonce, so I made a final pit stop in the men’s room only to return and find that Andrew had bought another round.
This led me to think it a good idea to have yet another and then when we finally departed, try to sober up a bit with some cannabis as I rode down Second Avenue, the result of which was that it made perfect sense to stop for a nightcap at the Whiskey Bar where I stood at the bar, cocktail before me, my eyes closed trying my damndest (unsuccessfully) to recall where I was. But, I made it home safely and even awoke in time to make it to Saturday morning yoga class where I learned that three ibuprofen consumed before stretching makes knee pain—if not headaches—go away quite well.
Saturday night, Mimi had a sleepover and so Jen and I went out to a part that, at 10:30 seemed endless, but after another drink or two was still going strong at 4:00 in the morning.
Which is more than I could say for me.
Friday, I met up at cocktail hour with my friend, Andrew Light, the noted environmental philosopher and as we conversed about everything from Elliot Spitzer to the Kyoto Protocol, I downed three Manhattan rockses, enjoying the view of the street from the window of Tini Biggs restaurant, a place that bills itself as the second-best cocktail lounge in Seattle. (I’m not sure what the best place is, but Tini’s probably has it beat when it comes to volume; the rocks glass that held my drink could have doubled as a soup tureen.) At this point, I thought we were done for the nonce, so I made a final pit stop in the men’s room only to return and find that Andrew had bought another round.
This led me to think it a good idea to have yet another and then when we finally departed, try to sober up a bit with some cannabis as I rode down Second Avenue, the result of which was that it made perfect sense to stop for a nightcap at the Whiskey Bar where I stood at the bar, cocktail before me, my eyes closed trying my damndest (unsuccessfully) to recall where I was. But, I made it home safely and even awoke in time to make it to Saturday morning yoga class where I learned that three ibuprofen consumed before stretching makes knee pain—if not headaches—go away quite well.
Saturday night, Mimi had a sleepover and so Jen and I went out to a part that, at 10:30 seemed endless, but after another drink or two was still going strong at 4:00 in the morning.
Which is more than I could say for me.
posted by Professor Dave at 8:45 AM
1 Comments:
it's like my mother says, david, about cocktails: "one isn't enough; two is too many; three is just right"
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