The brewpub is practically empty, here at the drab epicenter of the late Monday afternoon dead zone. Not much of a surprise. Personally, my capacity for rage and indignation is much like the strangely bland atmosphere in this rather over-weened beer-hole: stupefyingly bloated, over-full and largely immobilized. Does that make sense? Probably not.
I haven't been myself recently, so please bear with me. I'm in the middle of starting up a business -- no lie -- and that sort of madness is more than enough to yank one's psycho-existential underpants up over one's head ... What the fuck?
Yes, well. This week's blues excursion features the incomparable Freddie King, complete with choreographed horn players and go-go dancers. Outstanding.
(Real blog posts to recommence one of these days)