Chetspeak on Sunday
Bourbon is Bernie’s drink, in case that hasn’t come up already. When he’s his normal Bernie-type self he has it with ice. When things aren’t going well the ice gets skipped. We were iceless at the moment, by ourselves on a tiny patio behind some bar that wasn’t doing much business, maybe on account of this part of town being kind of sketchy. In fact, there was a good chance we were lost. We’d driven around for a bit, the sun moving from one side of the car to the other, and after a while Bernie had opened his mouth for the first time on the whole drive and said, “Where the hell are we?” He’d taken the next off-ramp, adding, “I mean that in every sense.” Which was a total puzzler, and now here we were on this patio: two tables, one torn umbrella flapping above us in the breeze, a waiter with a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.
– from … who can guess where this is from? Answer tomorrow.
Welcome Farrah, in the snow.
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