Back in the Pink?

Not quite yet, but I'm getting there. I went sailing after work Friday with T's editor, a stand-up guy who shall remain nameless, and a friend of his -- they have time-share schedules for this thing -- and it was fabulous at night even though there were too many clouds for a moon. Night sailing is something I'm going to have to develop into more of a hobby. I don't know much about how to do it without a pro around (these guys have been sailing since they were kids) but I follow directions well and my nimble fingers seem to untie knots quickly enough to be useful.

I'm going to the D. C. United game tonight with a bunch of folks, for your information, and I expect us to win because the New York Red Bulls are fading like the popularity of balloon pants. That was such a stupid idea by Red Bull to actually name their latest investment after a sports drink. The Walla Walla Powerade Squad, I can see. Red Bull is just silly.

A small clarification is in order about my drinking habits: I have not recently become, nor shall I ever be, any kind of alcoholic. When I wrote that I drink beer and fall asleep on the couch, that referred to a single bottle, not a torrent of malted barley and hops that pickled my liver like so much screwtop wine. Beer makes me sleepy and I generally avoid it unless it's part of a larger-themed evening, like Thursday, when I went drinking with my law school friend and his third-wheel old flame "now just friends" tag-along nuisance girl who turned out to be more fun than he is. Ha! We went to, among other places, a classy joint called Citronelle that is waaaaaay out of a journalist's price range. Apparently when they put you in law school, they give you cushy part-time jobs that pay more than a dying man would give for a last breath of air. These are the wages of sin, if you think about it poetically.

I am hungry for lunch. Maybe I'll tell you all how the evening went. Later.