Flashback to 1993

Here is a journal entry I just discovered in the "pile of crap drawer" For a period back in the old days, I used to journalize my life quite precisely. Obviously, a sign of mental illness. But, here is the entry exactly as I found it. Transcribed from the printout of an APPLE IIC. Yes, I date myself by doing this, and the Bar mentioned is long gone. But it's something I still remember very vividly. So, why not regurgitate it here in Blog form. I lived it, therefore own the intellectual rights to it. So, here it is:


June 28th, 1993.

"Marc and I sat inside the Duke of Connaught, soaking up the vintage, characteristic tarnish of the place. I do not mean that to diminish the character, but rather that the character evolved in the tarnishing--the worn benches where thousands have supped the foam from their last call beer. The darkened oak trim, seasoned by tobacco smoke which never quite evaporates. The light is harsh, from unfrosted bulbs that hang over the pool table and dissipates quickly into the dark corners of the place. A gritty, soiled atmosphere, but one that also emits a feeling that life has been lived in here. To me, a very comfortable feeling.

An old Regular approached us, a barfly of the Old School, reflexes and speech dulled from 30 years of boozing. She stood at the end of our table, saying nothing but teetering as if her pot belly was a counter weight to her swollen face. Her eyes were lost in sagging flesh, her fat face unable to express due to its alcoholic mass.

She finally asked for a smoke, and while Marc fumbled for his pack, she looked us up and down and matter of factly claimed "I need a couple of men on top of me all night long." Then, she singled me out and said, "Can you two pretty young men help me out?" Marc and I exchanged looks of shock. What? What's happening here? This is suddenly a little crazy. I foolishly responded with "Perhaps." This response, she pondered silently while teetering back and forth, trying to fathom her next move. "Perhaps. That's quite a word. Perhaps. I would never think of that." Then, she shuffled around the end of the table and sat on Marc, crushing the sunglasses in his coat pocket. Marc went into shock. She worked hard to pull her thoughts together, her head slithering upward until she could look at me eye to eye, and said "Have you ever seen the Rockies?"

What do I say, or even do, now that she's smothering Marc. She thrusts her elbows on the table and gets her face close to mine. "I inherit two million dollars tomorrow, and I am looking for a man to go to the Rockies with me. They are so fucking beautiful, those mountains."

I suggest that we are too busy with work, and that she should likely proposition someone else. She sits up and grabs her massive sagging breasts through her shirt, "You think I can?" She jiggles them in her hands, then cackles, just like a chain smoking, alcoholic, hag.

She shakes her breasts at me again and shifts on Marc's knee. Then she focuses on me, which takes an uncomfortably long time. "Let me tell you this. Go to the Rockies. Live your life. Live your life. LIVE your life. I was born a little girl, and you were born a little boy. You have to be careful with what you say."

Next, she climbs off of Marc and stands with her back to us. She wavers there for a moment, then, she turns back. "Go see the Rockies. Live, Live, Live..." Slowly, she turns and ambles back to the bar.

Neither Marc or I can process this. We sit quietly for a few minutes, just sipping our beer."

She must be dead now. Dead for years, I'm sure.

Viva 1993.