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  • Oh, sweet Jesus on a jumping jackhammer; it’s come to this. A seemingly endless week of dark weirdness punctuated by working as a semi-apocalyptic, cop-on-cop killing spree, gestapo frenzied, media cluster-fuck of a ho-down in my backyard and hood went down, so of course I had to get a bit loose when the final horn blew taps on my work week. It didn’t help that a bit of insomnia kicked in on Thursday night/Friday morning just to make today at work somewhat touched on the scattered and borderline surreal side. I fought back against that mattress gremlin 24 hours ago and gave him the big fuck you by getting most of my work done in the wee hours instead of this afternoon. Hence, coming back from the salt-mine, I knew that I deserved a bit of the European spirits, malt & barley and repast.

    Earlier today, after less than two hours of sleep, I did the usual Friday morning stupid; I was too rushed for a bit of the ol’ home-skillet, so an Alberto’s #6 breakfast burrito (eggs, steak and cheese) got pushed in my face while dealing with the morning commute. One early morning chow down would get me though my shorty of a work day: 9 to 3. Coming back from Berdoo, I hit T-Joe’s for a semi-gourmand supply run. The rational side was telling me to get a couple bottles of Two and Half Buck Chuck and a sensible little snack, but that banshee bastard in the back of my brain had other plans. Even though I didn’t have the cash for a good bender at the public tap (or what I’m really craving, some oysters and Champaign), so I took my relatively meager funds and decided on the George Thorogood option with tonight’s drinking companions my good Irish friend Mr. Jameson, and my good ol’ German buddy Herr Henninger.

    Knowing that a man can’t survive, or at least remain upright for too long on two hours of sleep and Irish spirits and German brew alone, I picked out some items for a late night protein fiesta that was sure to come, later rather than sooner. At about 6 in the PM (PST), the first metallic fizz-pop of a can that came across the Atlantic echoed through my house. It was followed by the distinctive tinny crack of the cap-seal being broken on the Jameson bottle. As the whiskey glass and stein began fulfilling their earthly duty, many online poker games were played while social media was scanned, questioned, posted and answered. After eight hours of this agoraphobic madness, the hunger demon finally set in, and it was time to crack some tins, slice, chop and cut up my extremely late dinner.

    The plate itself was a very simple and fairly cheap affair with no Kaluga (black sturgeon) caviar, Belon oysters from Brittany and Momotegi foie gras (unfortunately). Tonight’s fare consisted of smoked herring covered in smoked Hungarian paprika, Black Forrest ham, smoked gouda cheese, two hard boiled eggs sliced and covered with black pepper and paprika, pickles and a quarter of a sweet Maui onion and a beef steak tomato thin sliced and covered in Modena balsamic vinegar, tarragon, fresh cracked tri-colored pepper and pink Himalayan salt. It was all a bit on the salty side but went well with the German beer, and finally with some food in my belly, I can feel the sleep angels coming for me like professional assassins, and I await them with open arms and hopefully closed eyes.


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