Ain't It Fun

So here's an evening for you--my mom keeps complaining about the diarrhea (love that proper noun--it's like some plague in some novel) and she can't taste anything but thinks she should decide where we eat tomorrow night and this evening we go to dinner at one of my sister's where her husband is endlessly critical and I almost want to call him on it but he's the kind of guy where we'd have to actually, literally break into fisticuffs about it (I mean, I was a guest in his house? how dare I mention he treats my sister like shit!), and now it's been a Dogfish Imperial IPA and at least half a bottle of Marquis Phillips Sarah's Blend (but even that's sad as the Marquis and Dan Phillips had a big row and have split company) and now a healthy couple of fingers of Hangar One Mandarin Blossom, with its 80 proof kick kicking and I risk this turning into Peter Laughner's review of Coney Island Baby, but I've already way outlived him by almost two decades even if I never wrote "Sylvia Plath" or co-wrote "Final Solution," so someone outside the whole scene has to decide who wins there.

It's lovely to be in NJ.