Tue, 12 Jun 2012 17:45:23 -0700
After two hours of Ligeti last night and one of Beethoven, the first
day of a Monday-to-Friday oncall shift and a session at the gym, my
brain swimming by turn with micropolyphony and rapid-fire
Götterfunken and feuertrunken, I headed up the hill
to MacRae's. He opened the Yamazaki 18 we'd come across in Japantown
over the weekend, I curled up in his lap on the floor, and we sat
there eating gingerbread men and sipping the honey-like whiskey, my
pager silent, he describing the events and announcements of this
week's WWDC. I knew it was getting late, that I needed to go to bed
soon to survive the upcoming week of oncall plus Symphony Chorus
rehearsals. But his lap was so comfortable, the whiskey so pleasantly
pungent in its stemless wine glasses, the cookies just the right
balance of sugar and ginger, that we didn't move until the last drop
had been drained and the Pepperidge Farm army decimated.
I could live like this.