The Handshake Drugs

I can't make a decent martini. It's a god damned shame. I'm so talented in so many other ways, but I can't make my favorite tasty beverage.

This is hell - to have the means to make a perfect martini, but continually failing to achieve even mere adequecy.

My mediocore martinis burden my soul. My manhood is shattered. My alcoholism is embarrased. I weep over my impotence as a confectioner of intoxicants.

So I sit here alone, sipping on dry gin w/ the outlines of vermouth nipping at the back of my throat. There is no smoothness to it. It tastes like the afterburn of a mulberry jet fighter.

But I sip, and I sip some more. The onset of inebreation makes my 'tini a little tastier.

Actually, after six sips, it's not that bad.

Reborn - Again

No Monkeys died. Today, it is reborn. After more than a year of inactivity, Rothko returns with a new blog. Hopefully, it will display more wits, smarts and maturity than the last - but that seems unlikely.

We'll be talking music, movies, and the law - probably lots of antitrust, probably lots of links to above the law, probably nothing more than you already know.

Welcome back. I'm happy to be with you again.