Four White Russians

I stayed out too late the other night. Adam noted the next morning that I apparently had cereal when I'd gotten home and it was everywhere -- the counter, the floor, the coffeemaker, that last apparently for kicks.

I didn't just drink. I drank. Four White Russians. Count 'em. Anyone who's ever quaffed one with me knows I'm a cheap date.

So I was in fine stumbling form. That is for sure. I had to leave my car at The Albatross and get a ride home.

You would have had your pick, my friend told me as we sat at the bar. You could have picked any guy.

I still have a hard time believing that. But I'm getting closer.