that sacred golden amber that is tequila...
I am in the habit of frequenting several establishments in my neighborhood, confirmed old bachelor that I am, I rotate them judiciously.
One of my haunts is called Sweet Heat, they have good tacos and even better margaritas.
It was seventy-six degrees when I left work for the gym, and I diligently went about adding mass to my muscles and felt that all that grunting merited a refreshing margarita.
the bartender is Lisa, she is good to me (because I am a really, really good tipper) but tonight she poured quite a nice Patron silver shot, twice, in addition to my two tasty supersized margies....
ne me quitte pas
And there were two soused Scottsmen shouting at each other at an insufferable decibel level. Why do they shout so?
There was VH1, muted playing I love the eighties - laisse moi devenir, l'ombre de ton ombre- (is there no greater lyric as to the great abandonment, let me be the shade of your shade, submission, love...)
where was I.
Oh, I love the eighties, where do they get those people who pronounce so authoratively over my formulative decade, and how much do they pay them, and why again, do Scottsmen shout so?
And why don't I keep a bottle of tequila at home, well my fine feathered friend, that answer in astoundingly simple.
and then again, some day my prince will come, and he will have the same velvet tonsils as Jacques Brel and he will sing to me, quand Isabelle chante, plus rien ne bouge...
speaking of, I am reflecting about broads.
I took the high road, following my own fucked up advice. I sent out emails to Mysharona and to FLFF, recusing myself wrapped in my happy cloak of self deprication.
As P says (and I concur with only the lightest pinch of vitriol) let the drunk and the drama queen have one another.
I need September, I need to be in France. I need the persistence of the mistral, I need a too salty Mediterranean, I need a belly laugh, I need a bar-tabac and gauloise and the ambiance scented by 75 years of Pastis 51, I need the dry scrub brush, I need a good moss overrun, crumbling fountain. I need my girlfriends.
(I need to listen to that Outkast song about my goose being cooked), cuz my love goose is most definitely cooked.
Oh my fine, tequilaed feathered friend, I am afraid the bath tub beckons, and you are going to publish this unintelligible mess and regret it in the morning.
----
and a minor gripe, but am I the only one who finds bloggers spell check completely ineffectual?
Emma B has taken BOB out of the closet, is running a bath, and is looking forward to her dreams. she hopes that she flies in her sleep.
I am in the habit of frequenting several establishments in my neighborhood, confirmed old bachelor that I am, I rotate them judiciously.
One of my haunts is called Sweet Heat, they have good tacos and even better margaritas.
It was seventy-six degrees when I left work for the gym, and I diligently went about adding mass to my muscles and felt that all that grunting merited a refreshing margarita.
the bartender is Lisa, she is good to me (because I am a really, really good tipper) but tonight she poured quite a nice Patron silver shot, twice, in addition to my two tasty supersized margies....
ne me quitte pas
And there were two soused Scottsmen shouting at each other at an insufferable decibel level. Why do they shout so?
There was VH1, muted playing I love the eighties - laisse moi devenir, l'ombre de ton ombre- (is there no greater lyric as to the great abandonment, let me be the shade of your shade, submission, love...)
where was I.
Oh, I love the eighties, where do they get those people who pronounce so authoratively over my formulative decade, and how much do they pay them, and why again, do Scottsmen shout so?
And why don't I keep a bottle of tequila at home, well my fine feathered friend, that answer in astoundingly simple.
and then again, some day my prince will come, and he will have the same velvet tonsils as Jacques Brel and he will sing to me, quand Isabelle chante, plus rien ne bouge...
speaking of, I am reflecting about broads.
I took the high road, following my own fucked up advice. I sent out emails to Mysharona and to FLFF, recusing myself wrapped in my happy cloak of self deprication.
As P says (and I concur with only the lightest pinch of vitriol) let the drunk and the drama queen have one another.
I need September, I need to be in France. I need the persistence of the mistral, I need a too salty Mediterranean, I need a belly laugh, I need a bar-tabac and gauloise and the ambiance scented by 75 years of Pastis 51, I need the dry scrub brush, I need a good moss overrun, crumbling fountain. I need my girlfriends.
(I need to listen to that Outkast song about my goose being cooked), cuz my love goose is most definitely cooked.
Oh my fine, tequilaed feathered friend, I am afraid the bath tub beckons, and you are going to publish this unintelligible mess and regret it in the morning.
----
and a minor gripe, but am I the only one who finds bloggers spell check completely ineffectual?
Emma B has taken BOB out of the closet, is running a bath, and is looking forward to her dreams. she hopes that she flies in her sleep.
posted by emma at
9:49 PM
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