And Remember
Friday. Home a little early, a walk down to the cash machine next to the Grand Lake Theater, a walk back to the Sushi place at the bottom of the hill. My first Monkfish liver. Rich, that Monkfish liver. Kenny makes it at the restaurant, which, I am told, is a mark in its favor. Most places buy it ready made under plastic. What do I know? Something to order at the beginning of a meal, though, tasting it in little tastes as you sort through the rest of your dinner.
I had a large bottle of Corona when I got home, had a large flask of hot sake at the sushi restaurant followed by another flask of Double Demon Onigoroshi. I could see myself slipping into a sake and sushi sea similar to a drug slipping into a vein, not quite the white knuckle neediness of heroin (one hopes), but a siren call: your faculties dimmed by sake, you palate sated on Monkfish liver.
Seated at the sushi bar, a conversation with Ms. Sake, the beautiful and seductive Ms. Sake: her California rolls, her New York rolls, her Monkfish liver. What's a Monkfish, I wonder? How did it happen that he gave up his liver to feed my head this evening? A thought to make you ponder. Monkfish. Do Monkfish dream? Do Monkfish dream a dream not dissimilar to our own human dream that hopes to live a life without predators who favor the taste of liver? No liver before it's time? We won't let this slide into what cows must dream standing in their stalls. Not on a Friday. Not after sushi at the bottom of my hill twisted on Onigoroshi.
You could Google Monkfish on the web.
I could Google my life on the web. Who would care? Saturday. So. The weather's good. A little late to breakfast, but these things happen. A run down to Beverages and More to pick up a bottle of Veuve Cliequot to bring to the birthday party this afternoon. MSM suggested flowers so I'll pick up a bouquet next to the Grand Lake Theater. A friend of MSM who lives on the other side of the lake who was kind enough to run a couple of errands for me two years ago when I was recuperating from the prostate operation. She's turning 60. Hi, ho. We all turn sixty (if we're lucky). Perhaps that would be a good toast at the party: to all whom we knew and loved who never turned sixty, who will never turn sixty. They're with us still, here at this party, as we sip Champagne and remember.
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