I know by now that you know by now that Your Olde Pal Foz was in Tennessee a couple of weeks ago. But you missed out on another post because Your Hero spent this past weekend in New York City.
That's another reason why my life is sweet. I was still scratching the chiggers picked up in the most remote place east of the Mississippi River when my profession took me to Park Avenue.
I did not have an appletini. I drank whiskey. Whiskey, the drink of adult drinkers. A cocktail as American as Olde Tanglefoot. The blood of the grain.
It occurred to me that to drink whiskey East of The Park is to fulfill the great American Heritage bestowed to us by those visionary patriots who, noticing a foul-smelling stream leaking from the bottom of a rotten pile of corn, thought to themselves, "You know what? I believe I'll drink that."
I get emotional just thinking of it.
Oh, you know what? Your Good Buddy Larry is laid up for repairs this week, so you won't see him at Cole's tonight. Send Larry good thoughts, and buy him a drink and then drink it for him.
Foz and Patrick will both be at Cole's tonight before they go to The Whistler to see The Sweats play music!
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