All Scotch and No Water Make Me a Sick Boy

For all of you who thought I'd abandoned the blog: nothing could be further from the truth. It has been on my mind. I just haven't had the internets handy lately. I ordered a new laptop, sort of a Christmas present to myself, and lo and behold it's scheduled to arrive "between the 24th and the 26th," whenever that means. So once that's safely ensconced in my warm hands, you can read regular fascinating dispatches every night around meal time. Until then, things are going to be spotty. My old clunker won't connect, is the problem.

Long story short, I went out with J.C. again last night (and I don't mean the Lord), this time in the company of his band of merry men and women, some of whom can literally drink a crew of sailors under the table. It was somebody's birthday and I was tangentially connected to one of her satellite friends, and in this town that's more than enough to get you in the door, so there I was at the Black Cat getting a hangover handed to me every fifteen minutes or so, except of cource I didn't know it at the time. I woke up this morning on J's couch pullout to the sounds of the TiVo humming its way through a recording of Meet the Press. Lindsey Graham forcefully reminded the country, and this is a direct quote, that "The Vice President is not the Vice President of Torture." He gave a weird rendition of "Reading my Talking Points" throughout the morning, staring at his piece of paper for seconds at a time, staring off into space for others. J and I went out to breakfast at one of his favorite neighborhood spots, a greasy spoon with supposedly good grits that I couldn't finish because my gut was rotted all the way through. I am slowly recovering. At least I can type. That's big.

Back to work tomorrow. I get to re-edit my own stories AND my editor's.