Thank You, Harry Callahan

You might be mumbling, right about now "so you decided to come back...where were you last week..."  If you are so inclined to have a good mumble on my account, I am deeply grateful, as it indicates that you missed me, and we all like to be missed, now, don't we?

I was incapacitated last week; incapable of communicating any series of discernable thoughts, rendered mumbly myself, and at my own hand.  I had a dandy hangover and within that context was reminded of the foibles of age, why we are supposed to be wiser as we get older.  The message was powerful.

'Cause hangovers, at this point in life, are a two day process.

Goddamn, what a mess!  My sweet godchild, Alyssa, came by to visit on Friday evening.  She is lovely, glib, and entertaining, and she has been a special person in mine and Mimsy's life forever.  So, as we sat around the kitchen table, getting caught up on the wonderful things going on in her life, I had a cocktail.  We chatted away, and I had another, and...run this one out to its logical conclusion.  Now fast forward to Saturday morning.

I was crippled. 

Koda the Wonderdog, she is a great alarm clock.  Comes to the side of the bed and shoves her furry

AAACCCKKK...Muppet assault

mug into mine around the same time most mornings, sometimes with a soft "woof" to greet me.  When one's brain is marginally functional, however, this can become an alarming experience. Coming to consciousness like floating to the top of a pool, you see...something, and wonder if you've entered the Muppet World.  Then you get a breathy "woof" that is laden with the warm fragrance of tuna or some other gross shit that was in her morning dog food and things start to come back a lot faster.

  What did I do???

That's what spouses are good at: keeping track of the details of your miscreant behavior from the night before.  While the episodes for which she must do this are few and far between, Mimsy has a unique style.  She is rather chipper and happy, smiling endlessly  as she relates what was consumed and what inappropriate behavior accompanied it, her message  somewhere between "aw, it's ok, ya big lug" and "I'm going to have the best time torturing you, you miserable bastard". 

We can fast forward through Saturday, as sitting in the recliner staring at the TV and drinking bottles of water, that isn't so interesting.  It's waking up Sunday and still feeling like an inferior life form, that's the rub here.  Somewhere in the middle of Sunday afternoon, most brain function has returned, but by now the day is a write off and one is left to ponder a younger day, a time when you could go out and raise all hell and bounce out of bed at the crack of dawn and have a full productive day and share the memory of the previous night's bacchanal with nothing holding you back.

Them days is gone, pal.  Now it's Dirty Harry, perched on your shoulder, endlessly reminding you...