Stopped by the Skipper last night. They say it’s an Irish bar but there is no indication of Irish-ness in the decor, the drinks, the clientele, or anything about the place whatesoever really. I usually only pop in there for a drink or two at most and yesterday was no different. The people there are the fast-disappearing working class whites that used to be the majority around here before they left or aged out or got leveled by the bottle. Though I’m younger than they are, these are still my people. A depressing thought. Alcoholism hit me hard at a tender age. It took me awhile to realize it takes more than it gives. Even knowing that, I still imbibe the poison from time to time. Like my people, I have killed too many brain cells and cannot always be expected to make sound decisions.
After my drinks I paid, I got in the car, I drove back up to the cabin far up in the foothills, back to my Unabomber-style solitude. The wind beat on the eaves of the house. I looked outside for the cat that’s been coming around. The moon was a thin sliver over the San Gabriels. Rain tomorrow.