OK. This is my problem.
Every Wednesday night, Jim and I repair to the incomparable Pablo’s for some pizza and some drinks. And by "some drinks," I mean a bottle of wine. After which we generally repair, or re-break, or whatever, to Dolce Vita. And drink more wine; sometimes a bottle, sometimes not so much. But sometimes, as in tonight, so much. And tonight we also went to Cafe Biltmore, the local tapas (no, NOT topless… God, I’m tired of explaining that) place to celebrate Trevor’s birthday. He is 31, the Baskin-Robbins birthday. Go Trevor!
So, considering the long and semi-honorable marriage of literacy and drunkenness… our Wednesday night ritual often leads to lots of ideas for blogging. Most of which are political, or at least politically tinged. And then I can’t remember them later, or I think it would be too much effort to write about them.
So this blog remains mired in the muck of semi-masturbatory reflection and unable to ascend to the heights of (descend to the depths of?) genuine political comment. About which I have something to say, really, honestly, why don’t you believe me?