Last week, I went to Europe. Specifically, Berlin and Paris. Even more specifically, or perhaps particularly, I went to Berlin, and then to Paris, and then back to Berlin. OK, now that I’ve got your full attention…
…where was I? Ah yes, Berlin. I was in Berlin. And then Paris. And then Berlin, again. Did I mention that, already? I’m a little off, today. See, what happened was, I went to a little get-together at a friend’s place, in San Rafael, last night, and we polished off a rather large bottle of special issue Jameson that I’d acquired at the duty-free in Munich, en route to Berlin. That’s where I was, last week, as a matter of fact. Anyhoo, we finished off this bottle and—well let me tell you about this bottle. It had been trouble from the start. See, it was supposed to be a gift for my hosts, Scott and Beth, in Berlin, acquired, as mentioned, en route, at the airport in Munich. But as it happens, Beth is quite thoroughly pregnant, and Scott is…trying to cut down on his whiskey consumption…in favor of gin and incredibly affordable German beer that gets delivered, like milk, in crates, on a regular schedule. So when I arrived, we went right into the beer and the gin, and the whiskey just ended up being neglected. And then it was ignored. And then…well…wow. This just really isn’t going anywhere. Perhaps it was a mistake to attempt the resurrection of my writing career with this caliber of hangover. Romantic, as it sounds, to be a drunken writer, the unfortunate/awkward truth is that I may have passed the point in my life where my writing was improved, rather than derailed, by the drinking. Square though it may be, I may have to—-oh for shits I’m just rambling, again. Let’s get to the pictures.
