And the Witches of February Come Stealing
For some reason, as I slowly and indelicately slouch toward cranky old man status, I no longer care much for either coffee or beer. I'll indulge in either one if that's all that's available, but I never have more than one cup of coffee or one schooner of beer; neither substance does much for me anymore. I used to drink pints and pints of either one in the course of a typical day. But no more. I'm just disinterested.
Now, martinis--that's a whole different monkey. Give me a vodka martini, very dirty and extra dry with three olives, and I'm one happy camper. My taste for Stoli martinis has, if anything, grown exponentially during the past few years. There's something so ineffably romantic about a fine martini, especially if it's shared with a lovely but irretrievably corrupted creature like Evie Takahashi or Coco Solis.
And so, my personal decadence continues unabated.
Mahalo, my friends!
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