A Breakfast Of Regret

Had I not snapped out of my slumber as the driver blew past my apartment and turned west towards the river, I’m sure I would have woken up in a tub of ice water with an incision where my liver used to be. Not that it’s of much use these days.

Aaaah, Sweet Brooklyn, Borough of Bad Decisions.

The Family converged on Great Lakes on The Slope last night. I was a bit delayed (“My wagon train was waylaid at Dekalb,” I said apologetically), so I hit the ground running. I had scarcely tuned and had a slug of ale before we were off. And we were off. The first set was a bit frantic. I suggested after one tune that “That was Merle Haggard by way of Joey Ramone.” But we’d settled in come second set, new Smith Family drummer Scott Cunningham and all. Then came the real trouble.

I approached the bar, parched. Our hostess for the evening, Julie, looked out from under her spiky black bangs and said, “Ready for that shot of whisky?” I can confidently end the storytelling here, as we all know where we’re headed. No, no, no, not into the back room with Julie (sadly); into the back seat of a $25 Lincoln Town Car. At 3 AM.

Now then … here I am slouched over my desk dining on a breakfast of regret: one multi, two Excedrin, three B12, a viente mild, and 24 life-saving ounces of Gatorade.

My prognosis is for a near-full recovery. My liver? To soon to tell.