fin de semana

Last Thursday night I was aimlessly deleting songs from my iTunes (a process to which I have now taken a more systematic approach, with very satisfying results), when Robert "I have three weeks off from work" Bell poured himself a rum and coke and set the tone for the entire weekend. What followed was a Rum and Coke Renaissance, in which I remembered how much I used to love them and had to have 4 or 5 reminders to really reinforce it. The thing is, I stopped ordering them at bars because what you get there is a watered-down drink that wouldn't even be satisfying as just a cola. The ones I make are perfect. Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, enough to really taste it but not enough to make it antiseptic, and the coke preferably slightly warm and just barely perceptably a tiny bit flat. Mmmm.

Anyway, after those 4 or 5 reminders and staying up far later than I usually do led to the decision to skip work the next day, even though I had only worked Wednesday and Thursday of that week so far due to the holidays. I originally intended to merely go in late but when I woke up at 8 (the time I am usually getting to the office), I realized that wasn't happening and proceeded to go back to sleep until 11 (possibly the latest I have slept in the past 2 years). After waking, Rob and I poked around the house for a while, then went to see "Atonement" and ate tex-mex for dinner.

After dinner, we planned to go down to a bar in Park Slope, where we had read that they serve hot buttered rum. It was freezing and the perfect day for it. First, we went home to prepare ourselves for the long, cold walk down to 5th Ave and to also give ourselves a taste-enhancing treat. So of course when we finally got there, in addition to the incredibly delicious hot buttered rums, we had to also order cake. Rob got a chocolate and I got a red velvet; we could feel the sugar crackling on our tongues like Pop Rocks. The only unpleasant thing about the experience was the performance going on in the restaurant.

The place was mostly empty, only a handful of people besides us, but in the back corner behind the bar was a guy set up with a microphone and his acoustic guitar. He was terrible. Not regular "guy with an acoustic guitar in a bar" bad. Beyond the pale. Whiny. Bad covers of really good Cat Stevens songs. Recordings of his grandmother talking about some little girl who used to live down the street from her. And the most amazing, when he prefaced a song with the following statement: "Next I'm going to play a song I wrote based on a poem written by Anne Frank."

Seriously, Anne Frank.

It was unbelievable. We were willing to acknowledge the dissassociation that our current state surely contributed to. But Anne. Frank. In Park Slope, on a Friday night, in a down-home Southern themed restaurant. Why? Unacceptable. We got out of that place quickly while that lunatic was taking a break. Then, Saturday we went to the opera.