...on death by misadventure

the bastard us laying a bit lower tonite.

yes lobster, you know where I'm going with this.

a part of me died tonite.

as I ordered for what may be the last time,

sauza hornitos

shaken cold

with training wheels

at under the volcano.

the waitress said that they have new owners.

so there's new lights.

too much light for the bastard's taste.

the santa ria idol by the tap is gone.

the Spanish words that spoke the opening passage to malcolm lowry's novel for which this storied bar is named.

all gone.

antiseptic. it made everything seem more

you know,

sad.

the bastard loved this bar as it was but, now it isn't and it names me sad. even the beautifully hand written graffiti telling employees to wash their hands is gone.

I'm sure I'll go back again. it's not like I'm going to not drink tequila anymore.

it just won't be the bar the bastard went to to drink with friends,

and celebrate,

and commiserate,

and tell stories,

and to get numb.

it's someone else's now.

bummer.

—the bastard