Dreaming is Free, but Drinking Ain't

Mag and K. and I went to Pauline's last night. Shit howdy, they have good pizza! And I didn't know til last night they grow their own vegetables at a farm in Berkeley.* They do a très California style pizza--thin crust, with organic toppings and lots of flavor. I also got a salad and a Boont Amber. I will freely promote Anderson Valley beers 'cause they're not only yummy, they're also Solar Powered. After dinner, Mag and I strolled down Valencia and had a drink and good chat at the Elbo Room. Drink number two of the evening was an exceedingly dry Manhattan with Knob Creek bourbon (even when funded solely on student loans, I manage to drink beyond my means.) I don't think the guy even put the sweet vermouth in there; it was just whiskey, bitters, and a cherry. It was pretty ick, actually. As with my martinis, I like my Manhattans on the wet side, and "dirty," as Mag pointed out, could be said of maraschino cherry as well as olive juice in their respective cocktails.

We parted ways, and I biked back home and did a little Netflixing and other various online things, expecting Astrid to be home soon from work. At about 10:00 o'clock, she called me from the sushi place down the street, right next to the Mint, and asked me if I'd like to join her. I mozied on over, and sat with my girl while she ate decent sushi and drank cheap sake. A karaoke patron's rendition of "Little Red Corvette" encroached into the sushi bar, and we toyed with the idea of putting song requests in for ourselves. While Astrid finished up her dinner, I grabbed a songbook from the bar and began with the A's (ABBA, perhaps; America...neh; Bee Gees, too falsetto...)

Astrid looked at the list upside down from across the table and saw a Bjork number she was excited about. I settled on Blondie's Dreaming, and we got ourselves seats at the bar and passed our slips to the usual KJ, a man on whom I've projected an elaborate fantasy of knowing which songs are in my range and which are not, and whom I dreaded would know that I wouldn't be able to carry off Blondie and would communicate such disapproval with a raised eyebrow or a shrug. Of course, he paid no attention to me as I stuffed the song slips into his jar with the requisite couple-buck tip. Astrid ordered a lemon drop, and I had another Manhattan (this time with well whiskey, and I specified "on the sweet side" to the bartender, who humored me.)

For a Friday night, the Mint was uncharacteristically dead, so we knew our songs would come up quickly. Astrid ordered another lemon drop meantime.

I pulled off "Dreaming" pretty well, and was surprised (the KJ knew I could do it all along, naturally,) but the real star of the night was Ms. Astrid, who totally nailed It's Oh So Quiet, with cute little dancy flourishes and crazy head-shaking and screams, just like our little cuddly/scary Bjork. It was delightful to see her so free and having so much fun on stage! When we were both done with our 3 minutes of fame a piece, I posed this question to Astrid: "Should I order another Manhattan, or should we just go home and fuck?"

We left the bar feeling horny and pleased with ourselves.


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*Farms, in Berkeley? Mooo! (Thank you, B. I know at least you will get a chuckle out of that joke.)