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saltdawgShe was young, drunk, and Russian. And even though she was wearing a blue calico sundress that seemed to reveal a little more chest every time I looked over her way, the things she was saying were boring me to tears. I suppose at one point in my life I would have drunk in every last drop of what she was pouring out of her soul, drunk it in in anticipation of visions of sweat pouring off of that chest barely veiled by calico. Instead I only wanted to go back to the newspaper. It had been months since I saw a newspaper. It had been months since I had the opportunity to sit in the cool dark of a stale bar by myself; since I had a chance to do anything by myself. But instead, she was sitting next to me making imperative declarations and grand gestures with the cigarettes she kept sliding out of my pack.
Of course, just like everything that happens to me, every foiled scheme and ruined plan, I brought it upon myself. I brought her on myself. Usually, when I order a round for the bar, it’s just a little game. Just a little game I play with myself. My own private form of gambling. Buy a round for the bar and put it in the bank, and see how much the bar pays out. I mean, of course there are times that I would have welcomed a reaction like hers. From someone who looked like she did. But that’s the thing about karma. It’s always there, you can feel it on a morning like that one, floating cold and wet above your soul. Lurking until it decides it is the perfect moment to surrender it’s weightlessness and cling to your insides: consequences be damned. I mean, fuck, I know karma is consequence. What I mean is that karma disregards the repercussions. In spite of itself. Or something like that at least. I mean, I know that buying a round for the bar has its own consequences. That’s why I always, when I am deep enough into my cups, why I always start shouting out: A round for the house. Taking on the mantel of ‘Barroom Hero’ that I wear so vigorously. Hollering for a round as if I am demanding a great big Hit Me from Bacchus himself. And just like gambling with money, sometimes the lush karma pays back in spades with more chits or upturned shot glasses setting next to my pack of smokes than I paid out for. Pays out in furious drinking bouts with folks that you just know you ended up swaying over by the juke singing drunken half remembered caterwauls that almost match whatever it was someone punched up. It pays out with furious drunks with folks that you just know you decided were the fucking best friends you ever had in your whole life a half an hour into knowing them and then: What was your name again? And of course, after it is all over and you are suffering the other kind of karma , the physical kind, the very next morning, you wouldn’t recognize a one of them if you were both puking your guts out on either side of the dunkin’ donuts parking lot. And if you did recognize them, you damn well wouldn’t say anything to them because, just like you know they were the very best friend you ever had in your whole wide life for a couple of boozy hours the night before, you probably did something way deep into the margin of fuzz and blur where you wouldn’t know just how drunk you if it were not for comparing the ATM slips in your wallet with the chump-change you got stuffed in your pockets. And in your boots. You probably did something that you can’t remember because that sliver of divinity you haven’t managed to kill off yet won’t allow you to remember. Yeh. That sliver of divinity that thinks it is doing you some good because it knows all, but because it knows all it never learned how not knowing feels. Fucking divinity and it’s good intentions. And the pavement to hell and all that crap. And just like gambling with money, sometimes you break even with a tidy little savings account that you can draw out of until you’ve drunk every drink you pony’d up for every time a round for the bar slobbered out of your mouth. You break even with a low-ball conversation with another old salt or pleasantries with a looker who knows the game and comes over to say hello and smile demurely and at least make a guy feel like he isn’t all that ugly. On the outside at least. You break even and you talk to a guy for ten, fifteen minutes and the looker for maybe five. And then you can go back to the paper or reading the captions on the silenced T.V. or playing the mega-master trivia game/quarter eating machine. And when you totter off your stool you can remember talking to a couple of folks and so you can tell yourself that you weren’t really drinking all by yourself again. After all, you’ve had a conversation. Right? Right? Yeah, you tell yourself that over and over again as you stumble over curbs that have been reduced to rubble by god-knows-what since the last time you were in this port. You tell yourself that you were out and being social even though everybody who knows you, yourself included, knows that the truth was that you were just out getting shitfaced because of that thing that eclipsed everything except for that sliver, that splinter of divinity that you can still feel. Sometimes. And then sometimes, more often than not, you holler out for that great big Hit Me from Bacchus, or you double down, or whatever the fuck, when you got nineteen showing. You call for a hit and you go bust.
Busted can come on like the (other) lush in the corner coming over to you and interrupting the paper for hours and hours when there ain’t another bar for miles around the pier. Busted like not getting any liquid return on your investment. Busted like sitting in a dark bar on Decatur street with some young, drunk Russian chick stabbing incidentally at your eyes with a lit cigarette while she declares that she loves this town. Yeah. So?
So I bought her another Stoli greyhound. I hadn’t even made it through the front page when she sashayed down the bar and sat down next to me. After that first round I bought for the bar. And like I said, I really did bring it on myself. I bought that first round. And when she sashayed down the bar towards me with that certain drunken obliqueness that comes on after hours and hours of steady vodka drinking. Not hard drinking, just steady. She sashayed obliquely and I thought we would have a quick flirtation over the drink and then we could return to our corners for whatever we were up to all by our lonesomes at six o’clock in the morning. I suppose I would like to think that I would have thought twice about buying her a drink if I knew she was just another crazy Russian chick. Because, let’s face it, when I bought the bar a round I was really just buying her a drink. I mean I paid for the bartender to have a drink, but we all know she didn’t need me to pay for her to have a drink. As much as I hate to admit it, I think that the days when I could have been suspected of being a spotter are long since gone. So the drink for the bartender was really just another tip on top of the splaying pile of ones and quarters that I was sliding all over the tip gutter like so much blue water through the scuppers. And I’m pretty sure that she refilled the half empty pitcher of beer that was in front of the other guy in the bar. The other guy who had his head in his hands. So when she shimmied sideways watching the floor with one eye and the cocktail straw poking this lip, then that, with every stumbling shimmy I finally noticed her.
And after talking to her for a couple of hours, a half a bottle of Stoli, or however you want to look at it, I realized that it must have been killing her that I didn’t notice. Her that is. She was one of those women who take so much foolish pride in their appearance that even at six in the morning, after drinking vodka all night, she still preens herself in the mirror behind the bar. At least that was what she was doing when we were talking. Or at least part of what she was doing. She was like dervish, with the cigarettes, with the makeup, with the bangles, with whipping brushes out of her bag, and barrettes appearing out of nowhere and fixing a twist to keep her nape protected. Barrettes, cigarettes, lipsticks, brushes that would disappear almost as quickly as they showed up. I’d look up from a stolen glance at the sub-headers and find the bun she had speared with a bamboo chopstick (from the Chinese restaurant way down in the garden district, Darlink…) had melted down both sides of her head into pig-tails. God knows what was cinching those up. In any case, when I say we were talking I am using the term loosely. The ‘we’ part. Or maybe it should be the ‘talking’ part. You know what I mean. I was listening to her. I was listening to her voice and watching her hands and for the most part her actual words, whatever the hell she was trying to tell me, was going over my head. Or under the bridge. Like I said, I wanted to be by myself. Like I said, I wanted to be left alone and read my newspaper and continue my bender in peace. But you know just as well as I do that I practically invited her to come over to me. I mean in the cold light of day I can see the ‘round’ for what it was. But I honestly didn’t see it coming. Until it was coming at me sideways.
And I am being a little less than honest when I say that I wasn’t really listening to what she had to say. Because I was listening to all the fat boiling off of her heart in a little vodka fueled fondue pot in her chest. Fat boiling off and bubbling out of her eyes and nostrils, along with the smoke from my cigarettes. I mean she was pretty young, and if I think about it I was pretty much the same way when I was her age. I was oh-so-taken with myself and all the wondrous discoveries and insights I had into the nature of being, the deep thoughts I had on the notion of life having an actual meaning and all that. I suppose if I really wanted to, if that sliver of divinity would take the full-nelson off of my memory, I could probably remember sitting in some bar back east pulling the very same routine at some point in my early bar-drinking career.
But she persisted, and finally I picked up my times-picayune and fled the bar when she was in the powder room. I picked up my paper and stumbled into some other joint and refused to challenge Bacchus with my little game. I was just reading the paper and finding out about a drug bust in the first district and problems over in Metarie. nutria were overunning the industrial canal. And before I knew it, she was sitting down next to me. Again. And she picked up right where she left off. Telling me that her father was a UN official, and that she had run away to New Orleans and her purse had been stolen and her room over at the holiday in was on her father’s credit card, but she didn’t know what to do about cash…She knew damn well what to do about cash. She was going to follow me around until something broke.
And so it went. Stoli greyhounds, my cigarettes, and the powder room. And I’d take off. I mean, I know I was just asking for it. I wasn’t moving very far. She’d find me again and it would start all over. This went on all over the quarter, well into the afternoon. Until she finally told me that she needed some food. We headed over towards Acme.
But on our way over to acme, this beautiful young drunken Russian pulled me into the side of a building, where that record store was, and started to soul kiss me. There had been no indicators that there would be any kind of physical contact between the two of us. Just the flimsy calico dress, my money and my calloused hands clanking the zippo for each cigarette she stole from me.
She kissed me hard and deep. The way they do in Harlequin romances. The way that you remember the way she kissed you nearly three years later…
We dined on soft-shell crab and fried everything and drank more vodka. She told me her room number. I never got back to my paper. That is, until the food was gone. When the food was done she told me that because it was after twelve, on a Sunday(?) morning, she needed to check in with the police to see if her purse had been found. She gulped her last gulp of greyhound and stood up. Fixing her calico so it wouldn’t induce quite as much speculation. She stood up, with the second to last cigarette in her hand and told meI NEEDED to meet her at the Shim-Sham around nine that night. She needed rest. She said. Christ. I needed rest. I had just come back from a frickin' 130 day trip to AFRICA
She stood up and pulled her straw hat down to her brow and told me to see her at the Shim-Sham around nine. It seemed she was used to having her way with everything, and I wasn't (at that point) about to get in that way. And then she leaned in for another Slavic kiss. The folks at Acme didn’t even notice. Or, at least, didn't care. At two in the afternoon. We had that last Slavic kiss and the date for the shim-sham and she turned on the heel of her left mule. Took a step. And spun around again.
She said to me you said you just came from Africa, what was it like? Towering over me, ashing in my empty plate.
I started to say something. I started to try to tell her something Important, something important that I had been thinking about all the way across the mediterrianian, across the Atlantic, across the gulf. Up the River. about what I had just been through. And it started like this:
“well, there were these three camels….”
Camels she said camels are, how do you say, odor about them!
The camels weren’t the point of what I was going to tell her. I was going to tell her something for the first time in the hours we'd spent together. In the hours I'd been listening to her. Something about what had happened with the camels. But the word camels was just enough. She thanked me again with a kiss. And made me promise to be at the club later that night. And left me with an eighty some-odd dollar bill for our “breakfast”
I had a couple of more drinks at the chart room, and took a cab to my $30.00 flop house. I don’t think I even remembered to take the matchbook with her room number on it. I went back to the flop house and drank warm crown royal from my sea-bag. And I didn’t wake up until well after midnight.
I didn’t even go near the shim sham that night, or the next couple of nights even. I headed straight for Hideout. At The Hideout, after midnight, you could get an Absinthe and seven-up for three dollars, the juke was good, and nobody wanted to talk to you. Except for the bartender. And the bartender was usually busy.
Of course, just like everything that happens to me, every foiled scheme and ruined plan, I brought it upon myself. I brought her on myself. Usually, when I order a round for the bar, it’s just a little game. Just a little game I play with myself. My own private form of gambling. Buy a round for the bar and put it in the bank, and see how much the bar pays out. I mean, of course there are times that I would have welcomed a reaction like hers. From someone who looked like she did. But that’s the thing about karma. It’s always there, you can feel it on a morning like that one, floating cold and wet above your soul. Lurking until it decides it is the perfect moment to surrender it’s weightlessness and cling to your insides: consequences be damned. I mean, fuck, I know karma is consequence. What I mean is that karma disregards the repercussions. In spite of itself. Or something like that at least. I mean, I know that buying a round for the bar has its own consequences. That’s why I always, when I am deep enough into my cups, why I always start shouting out: A round for the house. Taking on the mantel of ‘Barroom Hero’ that I wear so vigorously. Hollering for a round as if I am demanding a great big Hit Me from Bacchus himself. And just like gambling with money, sometimes the lush karma pays back in spades with more chits or upturned shot glasses setting next to my pack of smokes than I paid out for. Pays out in furious drinking bouts with folks that you just know you ended up swaying over by the juke singing drunken half remembered caterwauls that almost match whatever it was someone punched up. It pays out with furious drunks with folks that you just know you decided were the fucking best friends you ever had in your whole life a half an hour into knowing them and then: What was your name again? And of course, after it is all over and you are suffering the other kind of karma , the physical kind, the very next morning, you wouldn’t recognize a one of them if you were both puking your guts out on either side of the dunkin’ donuts parking lot. And if you did recognize them, you damn well wouldn’t say anything to them because, just like you know they were the very best friend you ever had in your whole wide life for a couple of boozy hours the night before, you probably did something way deep into the margin of fuzz and blur where you wouldn’t know just how drunk you if it were not for comparing the ATM slips in your wallet with the chump-change you got stuffed in your pockets. And in your boots. You probably did something that you can’t remember because that sliver of divinity you haven’t managed to kill off yet won’t allow you to remember. Yeh. That sliver of divinity that thinks it is doing you some good because it knows all, but because it knows all it never learned how not knowing feels. Fucking divinity and it’s good intentions. And the pavement to hell and all that crap. And just like gambling with money, sometimes you break even with a tidy little savings account that you can draw out of until you’ve drunk every drink you pony’d up for every time a round for the bar slobbered out of your mouth. You break even with a low-ball conversation with another old salt or pleasantries with a looker who knows the game and comes over to say hello and smile demurely and at least make a guy feel like he isn’t all that ugly. On the outside at least. You break even and you talk to a guy for ten, fifteen minutes and the looker for maybe five. And then you can go back to the paper or reading the captions on the silenced T.V. or playing the mega-master trivia game/quarter eating machine. And when you totter off your stool you can remember talking to a couple of folks and so you can tell yourself that you weren’t really drinking all by yourself again. After all, you’ve had a conversation. Right? Right? Yeah, you tell yourself that over and over again as you stumble over curbs that have been reduced to rubble by god-knows-what since the last time you were in this port. You tell yourself that you were out and being social even though everybody who knows you, yourself included, knows that the truth was that you were just out getting shitfaced because of that thing that eclipsed everything except for that sliver, that splinter of divinity that you can still feel. Sometimes. And then sometimes, more often than not, you holler out for that great big Hit Me from Bacchus, or you double down, or whatever the fuck, when you got nineteen showing. You call for a hit and you go bust.
Busted can come on like the (other) lush in the corner coming over to you and interrupting the paper for hours and hours when there ain’t another bar for miles around the pier. Busted like not getting any liquid return on your investment. Busted like sitting in a dark bar on Decatur street with some young, drunk Russian chick stabbing incidentally at your eyes with a lit cigarette while she declares that she loves this town. Yeah. So?
So I bought her another Stoli greyhound. I hadn’t even made it through the front page when she sashayed down the bar and sat down next to me. After that first round I bought for the bar. And like I said, I really did bring it on myself. I bought that first round. And when she sashayed down the bar towards me with that certain drunken obliqueness that comes on after hours and hours of steady vodka drinking. Not hard drinking, just steady. She sashayed obliquely and I thought we would have a quick flirtation over the drink and then we could return to our corners for whatever we were up to all by our lonesomes at six o’clock in the morning. I suppose I would like to think that I would have thought twice about buying her a drink if I knew she was just another crazy Russian chick. Because, let’s face it, when I bought the bar a round I was really just buying her a drink. I mean I paid for the bartender to have a drink, but we all know she didn’t need me to pay for her to have a drink. As much as I hate to admit it, I think that the days when I could have been suspected of being a spotter are long since gone. So the drink for the bartender was really just another tip on top of the splaying pile of ones and quarters that I was sliding all over the tip gutter like so much blue water through the scuppers. And I’m pretty sure that she refilled the half empty pitcher of beer that was in front of the other guy in the bar. The other guy who had his head in his hands. So when she shimmied sideways watching the floor with one eye and the cocktail straw poking this lip, then that, with every stumbling shimmy I finally noticed her.
And after talking to her for a couple of hours, a half a bottle of Stoli, or however you want to look at it, I realized that it must have been killing her that I didn’t notice. Her that is. She was one of those women who take so much foolish pride in their appearance that even at six in the morning, after drinking vodka all night, she still preens herself in the mirror behind the bar. At least that was what she was doing when we were talking. Or at least part of what she was doing. She was like dervish, with the cigarettes, with the makeup, with the bangles, with whipping brushes out of her bag, and barrettes appearing out of nowhere and fixing a twist to keep her nape protected. Barrettes, cigarettes, lipsticks, brushes that would disappear almost as quickly as they showed up. I’d look up from a stolen glance at the sub-headers and find the bun she had speared with a bamboo chopstick (from the Chinese restaurant way down in the garden district, Darlink…) had melted down both sides of her head into pig-tails. God knows what was cinching those up. In any case, when I say we were talking I am using the term loosely. The ‘we’ part. Or maybe it should be the ‘talking’ part. You know what I mean. I was listening to her. I was listening to her voice and watching her hands and for the most part her actual words, whatever the hell she was trying to tell me, was going over my head. Or under the bridge. Like I said, I wanted to be by myself. Like I said, I wanted to be left alone and read my newspaper and continue my bender in peace. But you know just as well as I do that I practically invited her to come over to me. I mean in the cold light of day I can see the ‘round’ for what it was. But I honestly didn’t see it coming. Until it was coming at me sideways.
And I am being a little less than honest when I say that I wasn’t really listening to what she had to say. Because I was listening to all the fat boiling off of her heart in a little vodka fueled fondue pot in her chest. Fat boiling off and bubbling out of her eyes and nostrils, along with the smoke from my cigarettes. I mean she was pretty young, and if I think about it I was pretty much the same way when I was her age. I was oh-so-taken with myself and all the wondrous discoveries and insights I had into the nature of being, the deep thoughts I had on the notion of life having an actual meaning and all that. I suppose if I really wanted to, if that sliver of divinity would take the full-nelson off of my memory, I could probably remember sitting in some bar back east pulling the very same routine at some point in my early bar-drinking career.
But she persisted, and finally I picked up my times-picayune and fled the bar when she was in the powder room. I picked up my paper and stumbled into some other joint and refused to challenge Bacchus with my little game. I was just reading the paper and finding out about a drug bust in the first district and problems over in Metarie. nutria were overunning the industrial canal. And before I knew it, she was sitting down next to me. Again. And she picked up right where she left off. Telling me that her father was a UN official, and that she had run away to New Orleans and her purse had been stolen and her room over at the holiday in was on her father’s credit card, but she didn’t know what to do about cash…She knew damn well what to do about cash. She was going to follow me around until something broke.
And so it went. Stoli greyhounds, my cigarettes, and the powder room. And I’d take off. I mean, I know I was just asking for it. I wasn’t moving very far. She’d find me again and it would start all over. This went on all over the quarter, well into the afternoon. Until she finally told me that she needed some food. We headed over towards Acme.
But on our way over to acme, this beautiful young drunken Russian pulled me into the side of a building, where that record store was, and started to soul kiss me. There had been no indicators that there would be any kind of physical contact between the two of us. Just the flimsy calico dress, my money and my calloused hands clanking the zippo for each cigarette she stole from me.
She kissed me hard and deep. The way they do in Harlequin romances. The way that you remember the way she kissed you nearly three years later…
We dined on soft-shell crab and fried everything and drank more vodka. She told me her room number. I never got back to my paper. That is, until the food was gone. When the food was done she told me that because it was after twelve, on a Sunday(?) morning, she needed to check in with the police to see if her purse had been found. She gulped her last gulp of greyhound and stood up. Fixing her calico so it wouldn’t induce quite as much speculation. She stood up, with the second to last cigarette in her hand and told meI NEEDED to meet her at the Shim-Sham around nine that night. She needed rest. She said. Christ. I needed rest. I had just come back from a frickin' 130 day trip to AFRICA
She stood up and pulled her straw hat down to her brow and told me to see her at the Shim-Sham around nine. It seemed she was used to having her way with everything, and I wasn't (at that point) about to get in that way. And then she leaned in for another Slavic kiss. The folks at Acme didn’t even notice. Or, at least, didn't care. At two in the afternoon. We had that last Slavic kiss and the date for the shim-sham and she turned on the heel of her left mule. Took a step. And spun around again.
She said to me you said you just came from Africa, what was it like? Towering over me, ashing in my empty plate.
I started to say something. I started to try to tell her something Important, something important that I had been thinking about all the way across the mediterrianian, across the Atlantic, across the gulf. Up the River. about what I had just been through. And it started like this:
“well, there were these three camels….”
Camels she said camels are, how do you say, odor about them!
The camels weren’t the point of what I was going to tell her. I was going to tell her something for the first time in the hours we'd spent together. In the hours I'd been listening to her. Something about what had happened with the camels. But the word camels was just enough. She thanked me again with a kiss. And made me promise to be at the club later that night. And left me with an eighty some-odd dollar bill for our “breakfast”
I had a couple of more drinks at the chart room, and took a cab to my $30.00 flop house. I don’t think I even remembered to take the matchbook with her room number on it. I went back to the flop house and drank warm crown royal from my sea-bag. And I didn’t wake up until well after midnight.
I didn’t even go near the shim sham that night, or the next couple of nights even. I headed straight for Hideout. At The Hideout, after midnight, you could get an Absinthe and seven-up for three dollars, the juke was good, and nobody wanted to talk to you. Except for the bartender. And the bartender was usually busy.
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-16 11:54 pm (UTC)I love you phraseology.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 12:00 am (UTC)(Hideout was MY bar in NOLA. It started as a gay bar, went through many different permutations and when it was no longer "hideout" it was a gay bar again. I didn't go in the last time I was there. Not that I can't handle gay bars, but it was a LEATHER bar, which has a diffrent sort of ...err...cache.)
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
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From:no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 12:38 am (UTC)Masterful and magical. I've missed your "voice".
More please, whenever you can manage it.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 01:37 am (UTC)I bet she's living in St. Petersburg now.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 12:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 12:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 12:44 am (UTC)And what is a stoli greyhound?
no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-22 02:25 pm (UTC)Mostly because of the Stoli, but it's extra-awful without fresh grapefruit juice.
(no subject)
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From:If they are inconsiderate enough to bury me, I want "we've gone on holiday...By mistake. on my stone
Date: 2005-09-17 01:14 am (UTC)Re: If they are inconsiderate enough to bury me, I want "we've gone on holiday...By mistake. on my s
From:Re: If they are inconsiderate enough to bury me, I want "we've gone on holiday...By mistake. on my s
From:But maybe i'm too drunk to remember what i'm crying about.
Date: 2005-09-17 01:17 am (UTC)It's really sad. This is my life we're talking about here.
Re: But maybe i'm too drunk to remember what i'm crying about.
From:Re: But maybe i'm too drunk to remember what i'm crying about.
From:Re: But maybe i'm too drunk to remember what i'm crying about.
From:Re: But maybe i'm too drunk to remember what i'm crying about.
From:This ain't a romantic thing. Scout's honor.
From:Re: This ain't a romantic thing. Scout's honor.
From:Re: This ain't a romantic thing. Scout's honor.
From:Re: This ain't a romantic thing. Scout's honor.
From:Re: This ain't a romantic thing. Scout's honor.
From:it is four o'clock
From:no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 02:13 am (UTC)Stay tuned...
Date: 2005-09-17 02:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 05:07 am (UTC)This American's life.
Date: 2005-09-17 01:38 pm (UTC)Now a gig with NPR? I was born for that shit.
another suggestion: w/r/t Re: This American's life.
From:no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 03:34 pm (UTC)The part about you trying to tell the Russian chick a story, and getting no further than the camels -- loved it.
Cheers.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 03:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 03:47 pm (UTC)My Jimmy and I drink greyhounds, when we get the chance. We also go dancing in redneck bars and watch mexicans fight over games of pool... or so we used to. (we could be such instigators at times) Them's were the days.
I have a couple of good NOLA memories. Most of my 'eating with strangers' stories have taken place in Galveston and Houston, though. It used to drive princess nuts, this fetish of mine... now he's grown accustomed to it, and I've just run out of time. I wish I could commit a whole weekend to doing nothing but that. I've met some wonderful people and I'd venture to say it's better than sex. Most of the time.
Your nostalgia is bittersweet to read. An undertone of sorrow for times left behind... but when I sign onto this thing, I'm always looking forward to it.
luv,
tam
I'm just a nostalgic at heart.
Date: 2005-09-17 04:05 pm (UTC)n.
1. A bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past.
2. The condition of being homesick; homesickness.
Re: I'm just a nostalgic at heart.
From:Re: I'm just a nostalgic at heart.
From:Re: I'm just a nostalgic at heart.
From:Re: I'm just a nostalgic at heart.
From:no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 04:35 pm (UTC)I want to try absinthe but as I too am without a credit card it will have to wait. I have a book that gives recipes for making it but I suspect it's one of those things I'd want to try out on a couple of people I don't like very well before I tried it myself.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-18 01:31 am (UTC)Wow. That is a high compliment indeed. Thanks.
(no subject)
From:*laugh*
From:Re: *laugh*
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From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:I think I really just like the score....
From:no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 05:43 pm (UTC)Cheers.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-18 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-17 07:46 pm (UTC)Good to see you writing again!
no subject
Date: 2005-09-18 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-19 05:57 pm (UTC)But I came back to finish and your words have a way of painting a picture, you are there. That is what I love about your writing. And being able to tell you how much it means to me to read it is what I like about you writing it here. Otherwise it would be all fan letter "Dear Mr. Saltdog, marry *me* in Africa" talk and you don't want that.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-19 11:11 pm (UTC)*looking down at the ground. Kicks proverbial pebble*
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Date: 2005-09-20 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-22 07:26 am (UTC)