tales from below the floor
Feb. 4th, 2006 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
radfrac_archive_fullI would not have thought you could fit so much Guinness into one small man.
Dear reader, you know that I'm not the most able drinker. I do it rarely, but with focus; still, what staggers me across the deck would make a sailor laugh. It probably didn't really amount to more than four. It was difficult to tell, because we kept pouring it back and forth between our glasses. I kept insisting I couldn't manage any more and pouring mine into his. Then he'd pour another inch back into my glass, and my hard-wired finish-your-drink rule kicked in (the same thing that leads me to consume so much water in restaurants that I upset my electrolyte balance.)
By this talk of Guinness I indicate that I hung out with S. again last night. I wasn't feeling much like joy after work, leaving two hours late after a day that triggered my vicious hatred--never far from the surface--for Detail-Oriented Work. Forms wouldn't form. Letters wouldn't print. I did stupid things and my boss laughed at me. But the fscking letters are in the wind and I finally got to go home.
It was a great night, though. By halfway through that dark frothing river I felt a vast and compassionate affection for everyone in that pissoir we call a gay bar.
An aside
Computer-generated horse racing? In a gay bar? I couldn't even pretend to be watching it while I sat alone at my table with an unpoured Guinness trying not to look desperate. "It's okay. I'm waiting for someone." I told people with my eyes. "I am not trying to pick you up. Unless, you know--no, right. I'll just read my BUD LIGHT glass again."
To return
About one o'clock, I leant over and asked him if he was hungry. He considered. "Ravenous." he pronounced (and he has excellent pronunciation), so we walked up to Ali Baba's for pizza.
In retrospect, maybe adding more dough to the mix wasn't the best idea digestively, since drinking Guinness always strikes me as more or less like drinking a bowl of bread sponge, but Dog it tasted good.
He talked about his house and his roommates, who sound really cool, and we though we might try writing in the same room and seeing how it went.
And it's officially the day when I walk past View Street and gasp because its grottiness has turned candy pink and
the cherry trees are in bloom!
{rf}
Dear reader, you know that I'm not the most able drinker. I do it rarely, but with focus; still, what staggers me across the deck would make a sailor laugh. It probably didn't really amount to more than four. It was difficult to tell, because we kept pouring it back and forth between our glasses. I kept insisting I couldn't manage any more and pouring mine into his. Then he'd pour another inch back into my glass, and my hard-wired finish-your-drink rule kicked in (the same thing that leads me to consume so much water in restaurants that I upset my electrolyte balance.)
By this talk of Guinness I indicate that I hung out with S. again last night. I wasn't feeling much like joy after work, leaving two hours late after a day that triggered my vicious hatred--never far from the surface--for Detail-Oriented Work. Forms wouldn't form. Letters wouldn't print. I did stupid things and my boss laughed at me. But the fscking letters are in the wind and I finally got to go home.
It was a great night, though. By halfway through that dark frothing river I felt a vast and compassionate affection for everyone in that pissoir we call a gay bar.
An aside
Computer-generated horse racing? In a gay bar? I couldn't even pretend to be watching it while I sat alone at my table with an unpoured Guinness trying not to look desperate. "It's okay. I'm waiting for someone." I told people with my eyes. "I am not trying to pick you up. Unless, you know--no, right. I'll just read my BUD LIGHT glass again."
To return
About one o'clock, I leant over and asked him if he was hungry. He considered. "Ravenous." he pronounced (and he has excellent pronunciation), so we walked up to Ali Baba's for pizza.
In retrospect, maybe adding more dough to the mix wasn't the best idea digestively, since drinking Guinness always strikes me as more or less like drinking a bowl of bread sponge, but Dog it tasted good.
He talked about his house and his roommates, who sound really cool, and we though we might try writing in the same room and seeing how it went.
And it's officially the day when I walk past View Street and gasp because its grottiness has turned candy pink and
{rf}
