I don't even fall in love very often (about once every three years on average, I think), despite spending most of my life in the company of beautiful women. Strange.
I wasn't hungover. But I had spent the previous day in such a condition.
I also spent the previous day sobbing as to why my AC was not working again (turns out the circuit breaker for the compressor had tripped, meaning air was flowing, but not cold air), and had to mow my lawn in 95 degree heat with crazy humidity, then return inside to a house that was barely colder than 95.
Every bar is a memory.
And all the memories huddle together for company, so that in my mind it often seems as though every bar I've ever been in is on the same street, or at least in the same neighbourhood; every great drinking session I fondly recall happened on one night, or over the course of one weekend; and everyone I've ever drunk with fuses into a single person, the idealised Drinking Companion.
Sometimes it seems to me also that the melancholy that infuses so many of these memories had but a single cause, an idealised Lost Love.
Some of these memories I will now try to share with the enormous, faceless, blog-munching world at large.
These, then, are the mental voyages of the boozehound Froog; his many-year mission to seek out new drinks and new places to drink them in, to write The Meaning Of Life on a napkin.... andnotlose it on the way home.
Froog is an escaped lawyer - but there is no need for alarm; he is only a danger to himself, not to the general public. An eternal wanderer, he now lives in an exotic city somewhere in the 'Third World' *, where he is held prisoner by an unfinished novel (or, more precisely, an unstarted novel). He spends a lot of time running, writing, taking photographs, and falling in love with women who fail to appreciate him. He also spends a lot of time in bars.
[* OK, I'll come clean: I've been living in Beijing since summer '02.]
4 comments:
Of course, I - famously - do not get hangovers.
I don't even fall in love very often (about once every three years on average, I think), despite spending most of my life in the company of beautiful women. Strange.
I hate you.
Why today, Cowboy? There are so many reasons why you might.
Then again, so many reasons why you might feel pity for me too.
Are you just hungover again?
I wasn't hungover. But I had spent the previous day in such a condition.
I also spent the previous day sobbing as to why my AC was not working again (turns out the circuit breaker for the compressor had tripped, meaning air was flowing, but not cold air), and had to mow my lawn in 95 degree heat with crazy humidity, then return inside to a house that was barely colder than 95.
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