Goodnight.

After yesterday's epic journey to Dupont Circle, as capped by a sweaty evening lawn-mowing session prior to a droning fascist's photo-op in DC, which I neglected to view, Friday almost surely was going to be a letdown.

Consequently, I cooked a soup bowl cabbage roll recipe.

Dessert has been two bottles of Sierra Nevada Oktoberfest. Am I drunk yet? My assessment is that the past years' collaborations with breweries in Germany were better than this year's solo journey, presumably owing to COVID; it still tastes good, just not as expressive Teutonically as those before.

I continue to marvel at my difarm-near-me/">minished alcoholic beverage consumption during pandemic times. The key point to this reduction is solidarity in our household, which is to say that we have not been dining and drinking out. This means all my work at the pub is done before the doors open, and in turn, without the social aspect of drinking with others, I'm good for a beer, glass of wine or mixed drink, and seldom have a second one.

Well, before tonight.

Since mid-March, I've been intoxicated twice, maybe three times. Days pass, and I don't even consider drinking. You'd have to go back to high school to find a parallel. This strange dryness of being is amazing, and I'm not sure what to make of it. 

If you're just tuning in, and wondering where the stridency of tone has gone, trust me -- it's still there, albeit muzzled. I'm presently trying to stay out of the reprisal zone enforced by my town's self-appointed community pillars.

So there. 

Diary: The weather isn't listening, but please, keep right on talking.

5:30 a.m.
16 March 2016

The living room window is open, and a breeze has the curtains cocked at a jaunty angle. It's a good thing the cat hair was baled yesterday. People say it will be getting "cold" this weekend -- all the way back down to the low fifties.

Whatever. When I was a kid, we still were struggling through chin-high snow drifts in mid-March. Too bad I missed the Fear the Weather and Pass the Advertising "town hall" last night. Something about this wind should terrify me, right?

Coffee was made, and lox, cream cheese, capers, butter, rye bread and orange marmalade assembled for breakfast. The coffee was rich and clean, and the election results from Tuesday night were bitter. Fascists and corporate shills. That's what a grand total of two political parties hands us.

The highlight of my year will come in late April during early voting, when Bernie Sanders gets my stamp of approval. I just might cry. 55 years into it, and finally able to vote for a presidential candidate who articulates my own views. We may never pass this way again.

The morning's musical selection already has salvaged the day. It is a beautiful recording of an a cappella choir, pulled straight from the CD player of Pudge's vehicle after I chanced upon him last week while walking. It was in front of Sweet Stuff, and Pudge asked me if I was walking for exercise. I said yes, and he pointed at the door to the cakes.

"I'm going the opposite direction."

Pudge needn't be precisely identified. You know him or you don't, and to know him is to love him. It is strange to think about being acquainted with someone for 43 years, but there it is. He's the funniest guy on the planet, and has unerring musical taste. Who else in the world would give you the CD he's listening to, and even if someone did, would it be a recording of an a cappella choir?

That's what I'm saying.

The choir is singing "O Magnum Mysterium," which was an essential tune in our repertoire during choral days of yore. It bears repeating that I learned more about teamwork during four years of choir with Michael Neely than ever penetrated my thick skull playing sports. It surely says more about me than the coaches.

To me, it seems that in a great many ways, all those decades since choir have been devoted to futile efforts to recapture this elusive sense of teamwork -- a glimmer now and then, but nothing quite like it.

Bizarre, isn't it? All this chronic oddball, misfit, outlier and contrarian ever really wanted to do was find an ensemble to blend with. Perhaps it's a case of the grass being greener on the other side of the dog park.

A conundrum? Shane may wish to take note.

Are the bars open yet?