Hard To Say
Thursday. I probably had one or two more glasses of Guinness last night than a sensible man might. At least I avoided the straight shots of Johnny Walker Red my companions were consuming and buying for the folks sitting next to us at the bar. It was a good evening in the chance meetings we managed in just those few hours. I mentioned I was retired to one of the men at the bar and he offered to bet me five dollars that he was older than I. Well, I'm not much into betting, but what the hell? Five bucks? Turns out the guy was five years younger, a real ego stroke (you'll notice I made a point in mentioning it here), although I suspect all this Guinness and sake will head off any similar misconceptions about my age in the future.
Overcast with light rain today, by the way, not particularly cold, but we can handle it out here in California. Just, you know, grit our teeth and bundle up. I'm sure you understand.
“Fuck you and your little cat Ms. Emmy too!” comes the greeting from the crowd.
Only appropriate, but it feels more like December with the rain and the clouds. Hard to think Christmas/Holiday season with the sun shining down and the ladies running the lake nearby in hardly any clothes.
Plenty of ladies running the lake, although I think you're hallucinating when you say they aren't wearing any clothes.
It makes it more exciting when you add a little touch or two. Not that I actually lie, you understand, prevaricate in any way, it's just sometimes it's nicer to add the odd embellishment. Makes the writing more fun. And besides, you know the Sole Proprietor is really a nineteen year old hip hopper pretending she's twenty-one to keep her fan dancer gig at the small town strip club in East Texas, right? I'm sure I mentioned that somewhere along the line. Or was that Mr. Atkins and Mr. Amaya's supposition when they were waiting to meet me for that first time at the airport, camera in hand, when the world was young many years before Los Angeles burned to the ground? Hard to say, anymore, here in Oakland.
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