Perfection

So last night I was at a couple of friends' silver anniversary party. I meant to be only GST-late, but ended up overshooting a bit, so I arrived to a crowded room and a line for the bar that was getting longer rather than shorter. They had engaged a "bartender" for the evening. (I use quotes because--as will soon become evident--we're talking about a "bartender" in the gay tradition, i.e. a guy who takes his shirt off and can add one ingredient to a glass of vodka.) I ordered a manhattan, he asked me what sort of whisk(e)y I wanted in it, then this happened:

"I usually have it with bourbon or rye."
"I don't have any bourbon."
"In that case make it a Rob Roy."
[adds a measure of scotch to a cup of ice and sets it in front of me]
"So now, ginger ale?"
*expression of utter horror*
"What else goes into a Rob Roy? It's a long time since I've made one."
"It's like a manhattan made with scotch."
*deer in headlights*
"So, sweet vermouth."
[starts hunting through liquor cart]
"I don't seem to have any vermouth."
"That's okay, forget about it."
"Do you want some tonic?"
"No, that's fine." *self-consciously eyes queue behind him*
"You sure? A little more whisky?"
*grabs drink before he can find some way to ruin it*

As it happened, I--knowing my hosts were manhattan fans--had brought a bottle of Carpano Antica style for them. So I set off to find where they had set it. I had no joy locating either the bottle or them, but by now the ice had melted enough that the scotch was sippable. I was just finishing it up a while later when one of them came by and asked:

"So, did you get your manhattan?"
"No, he said he didn't have any vermouth."
*look of surprise* "I'll make you a manhattan."
"No really, don't worry about it."
*waves me off*

He was gone for a while, and when he returned it was with an actual martini glass rather than the disposable plastic cups everyone else had. Half an hour later, when I was almost to the bottom, he swept by again with the shaker and I topped myself off.

Grounded

So, as per usual, the "resolution" of the garden plot question at the meeting ten days ago left something to be desired, which is the polite way of that North Korea is better at keeping to an agreement than my condomates. Not wanting to see a situation like last year, where Crazy Neighbour Lady's weed patch became a severely neglected weed patch until I stepped in, I asked about arrangements for the Other Gay Couple's plot (along with the adjoining one they had taken over by default). They assented to having me assume responsibility for weeding it and Scooter told me to go ahead and plant what I wanted. So I did.

One week later, I came back to find almost everything I'd done that day undone: They'd pulled up the rosebush they'd previously asked us to care for and, in the process, stomped the emerging mâche flat. The two pots I'd sown with catnip were gone (leaving just the one pot I'd left alone) as was the volunteer purslane I was letting alone as an experiment, and the parsley patch was torn apart so they could stick it full of half-dead herbs from their pots on the deck. You could hardly have done a more effective job with malice aforethought. Still, as pissed as I was, I took the blame on myself for having trusted them to take note of where I'd tilled and not having taken one of them aside to point out where not to step.

Besides, seeds are cheap, so monshu and I visited Gethsemane again yesterday and I left with two packets of mesclun mix and some buckwheat. The plan today was to wait out the morning rain, put a few things in the ground, and then head to the Bucktown Art Fair. But the morning rain became afternoon rain, and the GWO spent it getting chores done while I gazed wistfully out the windows. At some point, I couldn't stand it any more and went out to rip the lambsquarters in the parkway, but I soon retreated inside.

About an hour ago, the rain having slowed to a drizzle, I ventured out again and got to work weeding, tilling, and sowing. Now there's spicy mix in CNL's old spot, mild mix between the mâche remnants and the lovage, and buckwheat everywhere else, including a strip of parkway at the corner. While we're still waiting to see if some agency will come along and mess with it, I decided we should be growing something there besides crabgrass. Buckwheat does well in poor soil, grows densely enough to smother weeds, and can be ploughed over at the end of the season to enrich the soil.

The OGC, btw, left without saying goodbye. Although we never became friends, they were always friendly enough with us that I thought we had some kind of rapport. Guess I was the only one who thought so. Meanwhile, Scooter seems to have become, if anything, even more standoffish while monshu and I are getting increasing fed up with his family drama playing out on the common deck. But the worse new development is their sullen fourteen year-old's sudden intense interest in entertaining boys out there at all hours. But that really merits its own rant.