Going-away party last night. It was a lovely shindig at a very cool bar on the west side, not in the sense of trendy-cool but more because it had a welcoming atmosphere and offered very much not your average beverages. Even their well drinks were made with quality ingredients. None of which I can recall at the moment, except Evan Williams whiskey figured prominently in a few of them and that was the brand we had the most of at Fort Whiskey at Burning Man last year (and I wouldn’t doubt there will be a repeat this year, assuming we can all score tickets). And no, the lack of memory has nothing to do with how much I drank, as I had one bottle of Not Your Father’s Root Beer and then called it quits because a long bus ride while intoxicated sounded like not a whole lot of fun.
The person going away is one of the good friends I met while working at the physical therapy clinic in 2011. The one where I went to work one Sunday and when I tried to unlock the door, my key wouldn’t work. At which point I planned to call the owner and discovered Owner had called me, probably about the time I was pulling out of the driveway, to say “Don’t come in, plumbing problems.” And we had been told earlier in the week that homeless guy who camped out in the alley behind the building told the owner someone had been trying to get into the building the weekend before, so I didn’t really find the changed locks all that hard to believe.
By the time I got home, though, the merde had hit the fan.