So, it's a $5.50 glass of Wild Turkey, a smokey bar and a mediocre band with it's amps up too loud. But it's some kind of stimulation after all and I've this little book to talk too.

They start something up with an acoustic guitar in a minor key and I settle into my drink.

Now one must always give credit for effort and I do, but the lead of this group is some lame and blameless kid singing about lame and pointless stories, and it just goes on and on.

Finally, they announce the last song. ( Thank god.)

It's called "Sad Marie". I think she's lucky not to be here.

I'm happy when "Sad Marie" is over and luckily for me, this was just an opening act for a very good band called "Mule".

The crowd shifts around while the bands switch equipment and I move over to the single guy seat at the end of the bar. This is were the old, defective, or dead sit and keep an eye on the living and connected.

I'm weary, whiskered, and I smell of cigars and bourbon. Still, things aren't so bad. The liquor has made me numb and comfortable, and soon, "Mule" will start up their music.

I like this band. They sing about things I understand like useless love, jealousy, and being a stranger, maybe even being a strange stranger ...

It's not that the music eases the pain so much as it gives it some recognition and a form that can be shared instead of it being the lonesome silence we take home. During the set, I was made melancholy enough to write some lyrics;

There's always going to be
Something wrong with me
Always something better
Something better I could be

In any room full of faces
There's always those you'd rather see
I know there's something wrong
Something wrong with you and me

I reckon I've been everywhere
'cept but where I want to be
But there's always something wrong
Something wrong with me

Cigarettes and good whiskey
Cigarettes and good whiskey

I know she's other choices
Better choices I can see
Yeah, there's always something wrong
I'm not the man I oughta be

Well she's finally gone her way
I'm just alone and free
And there's finally nothing left that's wrong
Finally nothing wrong with me.

Cigarettes and good Whiskey
Cigarettes and good Whiskey

I met an actress last night at my favorite bar. We had met before at an acting workshop intensive. (Yeah, I do that)

She's absolutely beautiful; on par with Cameron Diaz! We hadn't really talked at the intensive, although we did a read together, and I of course had wondered what she might be like to spend time with (among other things).

She recognized me immediately, and I was given a nice hug and greeting.

That moment would be the highlight of the subsequent fifteen minutes of our meeting.

Our initial exchange was fairly measured and even, but after a bit, it became almost completely unnecessary for me to do anything but say "oh yeah", smile, and nod.

She'd just finished a four-week run of a production of Hamlet, and although she'd had some artistic differences with the director, she'd really grown from the experience.

She'd played Gertrude, however not in the traditional mode, but rather as Hamlet's psychological projection on his therapist. The costume choice was very challenging for while she needed to come across as royalty, she still had to look professionally believable. They settled on a very nice blue velvet dress. She went on to describe details of the dress but some things that began to escape me.

At some point, I remember having had to sit down on a barstool. She remained standing. It was like sitting next to a washing machine during the spin cycle.

She went on to tell how instead of one person playing Hamlet, they had used seven actors to do various aspects of his personality. She of course had to deal with them all. I said I was sorry I missed it.

Apparently she'd strongly resisted the world of acting but at some point she realized that it was the only thing she was meant to do. This moment happened at the age of 22 when while walking through a hotel lobby where she worked, she'd been cast as a background player in a commercial spot. After that she thought she should get some training.

Now, she's working on her career every single day by reading monologues, taking classes, and mailing out postcards to casting directors on any plausible pretense. Then of course there's also the gym workouts and Yoga classes. The last mailing was about one hundred and fifty pieces.

She illustrated the difference in gesture required for a fifty-person venue as opposed to a hundred and twenty seat affair. One is bigger than the other.

Now, I don't mean to imply that I'm any less shallow or self-absorbed than this woman. The fact is, that all the while she'd been talking; I hadn't been the least bit interested in what she had to say, but rather what if any were my chances of sleeping with her. At this point however, even that was losing its appeal.

She took the last drink of her Mango Margarita, smiled at me, giggled and made me promise not to tell anyone, especially a gossip columnist about what she'd recently done.

I promised. She turned away to order another margarita.

Now, for the first time since our initial hug, I was actually interested in what she was going to tell me. Maybe the first ten minutes of our initial 'conversation' could be dismissed as a small talk formality required with an actress. Maybe, I imagined, something now would begin that could lead to something more substantial.

She took her martini from the bartender, sipped it, savoring it, as well as my anticipation.

Then she told me that she'd actually used the Internet to meet someone.

At this point the listening became remarkably difficult, but I endured while she related to me all the details of each of his four posted photos, and then the terribly funny and naughty things they said to each other.

I suppose it's some kind of karmic retribution for my selfish and shallow ways; to be trapped next to some exquisitely beautiful woman while she tells me about her romantic life.

I recently found out that Senator Joe McCarthy died the same year I was born.

http://www.thenewamerican.com/tna/1996/vo12no18/vo12no18_mccarthy.htm

Maybe there's something to this reincarnation thing. I think he died of cirrhosis of the liver, so I can see an obvious similarity right off.

How to make a martini: Place three ice cubes in 8 ounce glass. Take bottle of Vodka out of freezer and pour enough to cover the cubes. Add a capful of vermouth and forget the fucking olive.

It's been awhile. I'm moody.

If you're not moody, you're not paying attention. That, or your prescription is much better than mine.