It wasn't my fault! I went with a friend to a wine bar she wished to visit. They could not seat us immediately, and a friend walked by and invited us to his porch for a glass while we waited - that was the white. Then we moved to red in the wine bar.
Then I remembered there was a game on afterwards, and I had to drink beer. And a shot because Syracuse lost, and the off-duty bartender, a big 'Cuse fan, decided that, in his words we "should all feel as crap as him tomorrow, though for a different reason."
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.]
10 comments:
Work is the curse of the drinking classes.
~ Oscar Wilde
White wine, followed by red, followed by beer (and an shot of dubious origin) does not a happy following work day make.
Beer before wine, everything fine.
Wine before beer makes you feel queer.
You shouldn't disregard the wisdom of the ancients, Cowboy.
Ruby, nice to hear from you again.
Who are you??
Classic!
Hmm, I spend hours writing witty and provocative posts that never stimulate a single comment, and then people get all excited over a joke photograph.
Blogging - it's a thankless task. How sharper than a serpent's tooth...
Ah now, not sure whether I succeeded in getting through to you by email last week. A contribution to the above:
Whisky then beer, never fear.
Beer then whisky, bit frisky.
Are you around next week?
It wasn't my fault! I went with a friend to a wine bar she wished to visit. They could not seat us immediately, and a friend walked by and invited us to his porch for a glass while we waited - that was the white. Then we moved to red in the wine bar.
Then I remembered there was a game on afterwards, and I had to drink beer. And a shot because Syracuse lost, and the off-duty bartender, a big 'Cuse fan, decided that, in his words we "should all feel as crap as him tomorrow, though for a different reason."
Oh well, that's all right then. Just so long as there's a good reason...
Why, Dr W, I didn't realise it was you. It will be great to catch up with you again.
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