Have been a little perturbed lately about how every story I can tell you starts with "last night I was at the bar, and..."

Part of the problem is I'm socially awkward, but crave human company. This puts me in the same position as most of the human race, you are thinking. I think I take the trait a little farther than most. Ful describes me as "Mr. Blunt," owl's word of choice seems to be "prickly..." I can count the number of dinner parties I've comfortably inhabited on two hands.

(For the record, three of those were with %%diary-floodtide%%- the one at his house with Ken and J and that oboe player- the dinner that confirmed my prejudice for his cooking; one with some of his professors at his grad institution; one was an unforgettable dinner with he and Sarah B., an acting coach. Remember, %%diary-floodtide%%? The superb wine? I still owe you dinner out for that one.)

But I never feel very clearly myself when alone. I suppose it's one of the paradoxes of the human condition that we must either flex our selves through shared language or else risk losing what quiddity language allows.

I could really stand to dry out for a couple weeks. I'm not sure that my fragile friendships with the other bar folk could withstand a break.