The Weight

My god, this blogging business is a huge responsibility. The moment you tell someone you have a blog (or, more likely, the moment someone else points out that you have a blog (because you had to go open your big mouth and tell them, of course)), you're suddenly assumed to be the junior varsity society reporter, covering every spit and snit your friends, your friends' friends, and all your sundry new acquaintances might choose to have or throw.

And while the novelty is a kick -- yes, to be the last on your block to have a blog -- the explaining is more of a kick in the head.

OK, so where was I that I have to rant so? I will start at the beginning. JV social cub reporter reporting for duty, SIR!

Friday night: big party for A's birthday. Lots of art folk. Lots of drinking. I mean, shocking amount of alcohol consumed. Who knew bourbon was back in style? Who knew Scotch had fallen so far from favor? Who eats so much cheese? Everyone should have a human finger on hand to slow down the rate of consumption.

But I digress. Far better that guests balance booze with food. That party concluded around 3:30am, and then cleanup and bedtime reading took me to 5am, at which point I was racing the dawn's early light to fall asleep. Somehow, I managed it.

This afternoon, I drove the hourlong trek to P's beach shack. Sun out, top down, radio on, traffic at bay ... the euphoria bordered on a post-sex well-being. Upon hearing my rapturous description, P suggested I need to get out more.

That event was just ... fine. Nothing quite like reconnecting with former co-workers you never really connected with in the first place. I constructed an 11-ingredient guacamole. Kept me busy. Later, gossip caused issues. Lashon hara (Hebrew for the "evil tongue") that painfully wise concept from the Talmud, proved itself the better path yet again. Or would have, had I managed to keep my tongue still. In brief, the idea is that one should never speak of anyone else for any reason. At least that's how I understand it. It's far safer.

Well, I just typed 200 l's in a mini-blackout moment, so it's time to call this quits. I yam what I yam, and what I yam is tired. I'd happily keep up the chatter, but I'd even more happily slip into my 25,000-thread count sheets and let my subconscious do the walking. Sorry, Charlie. News of the Swink party and the Jimmy Z show and my slinking around the side of a well-lit deserted house in search of the final vestiges of a Saturday night party ... all that will have to wait. Maybe ... forever.