summerfest

I'm sick of the son and heat. I'm sick of my skin feeling like a damp sponge. I hate the stiffling pressure of the air. It's not going to rain until November. It seems like forever away.

After Average Joe--unfortunately, the season ends tomorrow, and though tonight was full of drama, my final missive to Anna will have to wait one more day--it was time to go drink with the women's soccer team my roommate plays on. I had to stay at work until about 7:30pm, so I could get home in time for my show, of course, so I missed the game, but I was happy to hear that they won 10-2 in my absence. Maybe I'm a bad luck charm for them or something.

I hadn't eaten though, not since lunch, and the heat caused me to make short work of those little rum and cokes in the tiny little glasses. Sure, I like the alcohol, but it was the ice that I was after, and I emptied each glass trying to cool down.

After that, we were off to another bar, where the spicy bean from my friend's bloody Mary nearly set my stomach to explode. I don't understand how or why people drink those things. I understand they have some witch-doctor-like medicinal quality, but that hardly seems worth the effort. It's like a liquified salad with hot sauce and vodka. But I do like watching people make them. Our bartender, one of my favorites in town, fixes them up real good. I always marvel at the bizarre mixture of ingredients. It serves as proof that human beings are capable of just about anything. Worcestershire sauce in a cocktail? Whodathunkit?