Forgotten Beatitudes

So, last night, I was enjoying a smart cocktail with my even smarter friend Mandy at the smartest place I know, Boozefish. When I say sharing, I really mean I was enjoying my second Negroni (cause I like my drinks like I like my men, red and bitter) while Mandy was drinking a demure water for some reason.

Mandy mentioned that she had been reading some of my back entries over here, and that got me thinking about writing again and, specifically, blogging and essays. i mean, now that Gore Vidal has taken the big dirt nap, SOMEONE has to step in to fill the void, right?

So here I am, pulling this old thing out of the mothballs, or backing it out of the garage, or whatever other metaphor you prefer…or simile…I never know, like, which one uses like, right?

It’s always interesting looking back in my drafts folder and seeing these little aborted snapshots of my past mental states. There’s the post titled “The John Problem” all about my inability to sustain a relationship due to commitment issues and getting bored and wandering off from my one true love (blah, blah, blah). I think I was going to try to end this on an up note about how I’m now big enough, and smart enough, and strong enough to not need a relationship and that’s probably the best choice for me…but I apparently got bored and wandered off before I brought it on home.

There’s the post about clubbing in my 30s with friends and realizing somethings are (rather thankfully) over with.  I’ve now entered the portion of my life where me having a good time with friends resembles sexual predatorhood or something, inspiring mild-mannered Amberzombies to turn into “Super Fag”, flying to my lady friend’s side and declaiming, “Is this man bothering you?”  To which, said lady friend responds, “He’s with us,” which, I can’t help but note, didn’t really answer his question.

There’s the strangely sad draft entitled “Time Enough” which is inexplicably blank.

There’s the draft about how I confused Broccoli Rabe with Broccoli Rape and hilarity ensued.

There was even a single comment in moderation from a post I wrote five years ago.  I finally approved it, so you can read it for yourself, but after reading it, I’m sort of not surprised he daughter gulped down magnets.  We’re not really dealing with the brightest flood in the track lighting fixture here.

But then there were the actual finished posts.  Some of these I’m still proud of to this day.  Maybe proud isn’t the right term.  Simpatico with?  I recognize bits of myself in them.  I’m not that person anymore, but I’m not a stranger to my past and that’s vaguely comforting.

In any event, it looks like I have more to say and, as I have this domain for at least another year and am paying a few, perhaps I should say it here?  So let’s see what it looks like this time, shall we?

Also, if anyone knows any way to somehow link a WordPress blog (hosted not on the WordPress site, but on Dreamhost) to a Facebook account, I would be ever so grateful if you could share this cyber-witchery with me.

PS:  For anyone who cares, a Negroni is equal parts Campari, gin and vermouth rosso (red vermouth to those of you who don’t speak drunk).  Mix it with ice, throw it in a tumbler on the rocks, plop in an orange twist and enjoy the attractive bitterness.  I personally like throwing in a splash of orange bitters, but that’s not canon.   Next I shall try a Sazerac (thanks for the tip, Billi Jo!)  if possible, with rye whisky, Peychaud’s Bitters, a bit of simple syrup (yeah, I know, carbs, whatever), and just a wee splash of Absinthe, now that it’s apparently legal over here again.  I don’t know if I’ll like the cocktail, but I like the name because it sounds like I’m drinking a Vulcan.