The Parable of the Good Alcoholic.
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I figure there are two ways to burn a bridge: whiskey, and everything else. I admit it: There's something beautiful in a martini glass; something so achingly elegant in the way a champagne flute plays its score. And I know it must be in my blood because I wasn't brought up to drink, it was never glorified, and certainly not encouraged, not in a Baptist household. (At least the Jews in my family drank wine, but I didn't know them very well, and they always seemed to be committing suicide or losing a few children in Oklahoma or some such dramatic thing...
The philosophy of Frogism.
One time, when I was small child, a friend of mine and I beat frogs to death with red, plastic shovels after a rain storm, mid-afternoon on a Saturday. It was just one of those things that you do when you're a kid. I was never a particularly violent child. Though, perhaps I skirted the state line of crazy for a band of years during my adolescence, like, ages Birth to Present...but, believe me, it's in our blood. I've managed to escape, cleanly enough so far, and that's it's own definition of success. To this day, I pray for those frogs' souls, though. And, for good measure, I...
Every gas station in Georgia is like a mini-casino.
I was ready to go the minute I woke up. For two reasons: I was ready for a road trip, first of all; also, I'm rather moody, and I am completely helpless about it. One second I'm the life of the party, and the next, I want a small closet with no windows and a fur coat to roll around in, and a really filthy martini in an oversized glass without the garnish unless they stuff the olives with blue cheese. I guess I get it from my mother's side. We were coming to Atlanta for a wedding. Well, actually I was coming to...
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