Friday, August 20, 2004

evenin plans of buddy don: dinner n scotch at keens

me n miz bd has been a'waitin fer tonite as ifn twere chrismus or sumthin. reason why? our irish frien dun invited us out to a dinner at keens chophouse, witch we aint a'goin thar fer the food! tiz the cumpny n the amazin sangle malt scotch menu. tiz such a dee-light! ye caint hardly ruin a weekend that starts with a grate seleckshun of sangle malts, witch we probly a'gone share tastes of each one we order, so twixt the three of us -- miz irish friend aint such a big fan of scotch on a counta how she luvs good wine better -- we orta git a chants to sample sumwhar twixt 9 n 12 differnt scotches.

ifn only we dint half to wurk furst! but wurk we have n plenty of it. we been as busy as a hill of army ants a'lookin fer sumthin to eat lately. fer instunts, we jes about to finish buildin over 200 of them blue blackberry devices that everbidy in bankin has gut to have, witch this bunch is all fer our analysts, witch they dint used to be able to order em but thangs changed whenever folks gut to lookin a lil closer at week after nex n the rnc n gut to figgern how they dont wonta be in town ifn they kin hep it. thangs has been intents of late!

meanwhile i finely gut a book name of red cavalry by isaac babel that i orderd a long time ago, witch eric over at straight white guy recommended it. i caint hardly wait to read it. eric's a purty good riter his ownself, witch i recommend ye read his own ritin bout a lil battle he witnessed.

speakin of books, i jes finished a cuple i wood recommend to ye. thays bof by frank mccourt, witch thays memoirs of his life. furstns a book name of angelas ashes, witch tiz bout his time in ireland, witch he wuz born in amurka but his folks moved back to limerick whar he wuz razed in such poverty tiz hard to magine. the second is called tiz n it tells bout how he cum to amurka n gut bad jobs but wurked his way up till he gut a degree n started teachin in publick hi skools.

corse i found the topick verr innerestin on a counta how i been riting a long novel name of life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly, witch tiz based on sum of the thangs i seen n dun in life only taint all spozed to be pure facks but a novel that ye kin make of thangs ye seen. whenever yer ritin fickshun, ye half to member that the way thangs really happens dont make fer good stories, so thays thangs ye kin change to make em a lil better. i been aimin at truth ruther than non-fickshun. thays a differnts.

innywho, one of minny thangs that dun impressd me bout these two books is how he tells on his ownself, witch by that i mean he tells thangs that mos folks mite druther hide, such as how even tho it hurt him a lot how his daddy lef his mama n his bruthers with nuthin n went off to england durin worl war two but dint send no money back on a counta how he drunk it all -- witch tiz hard a nuff -- but then he splains how he follerd in his daddys footsteps n dun sumthin simlar, tho he never fergut to take keer of his lil gurl. but he add mitts to minny a time whar he shoulda gone home to his wife n child but stayed out all nite liftin the glass till he couldnt stand up to vomit. i add mire his honesty n wont to match it, even tho thangs i gut lef to rite wont make me look good no how no way. but thays truth in em.

sides that, i aint gut no room to talk bout how frank mccourt lacked to go out a'drankin on a counta how me n miz bd caint hardly wait fer the day to be over sos we kin gather at keens n try to pick witch sangle malts we wood lack to drank. corse, we dint git a'started drankin till we wuz in our fifties n so far, we aint drunk a nuff at inny one time to git drunk. lease not yet n i hope we kin keep it thataway.

as ye kin see frum the pitcher of our colleckshun of whisky, we aint gut much room to talk bout wastin spendin money on investin in fine scotches n whiskey!

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