I woke up in OldMiner's bed.
I was in a trolling mood when I wrote this. OldMiner is a great friend and a gentleman, and he took the floor despite my best efforts to give him back his bed. I'm also fairly sure he was up the entire night working on a rather dire-sounding programming gig.
The joke seems to have amused both of us, though, and some other folks, so I more or less let it stand.
It still makes me giggle.
I'd collapsed there the night before after a brief shower and negotiating connections to the local network. I woke to the sound of furiously tapping keys and a quiet, somewhat guiltily monosyllabic work call. Eventually, I rolled out of the tangled blankets and blearily discussed breakfast. By the dragging weariness from the activities the night before, I could tell I wasn't hitting the trail to Oregon anytime soon.
Eying OldMiner, I decided now was as good a time as any to inflict alcohol on the unwary.
Evil Catullus, another local, was to join us for this. We embarked to the Union Bistro and got there early, sliding down to the end of the bar where I plied OldMiner with a mixed drink and ordered a beer for myself.
As I debated the merits of liquor with a somewhat bleary OldMiner, a rather dapper gentleman in a vest and button-up shirt slid in.
Evil Catullus is a gentleman with a wicked sense of humor and some very interesting life experiences. His perspective on writing, mental health care, race issues, and alcohol are fantastic. I approve of his taste in short, angry Brits.
Lunch was too damn short. I'm hoping one of these days I'll get to meet him and his husband on this side of the pond or their side and spend a good afternoon drinking and chatting.
The next hour or so was an even mix of drinking stories, drinking lore, and Clarion workshop discussions. In between, there was fantastic food and a deeply entertaining bartender who, complicit to my plotting, served OldMiner a shot of something elderberry-related, and then something else. We parted regretfully but cheerfully, and on Catullus's suggestion, got in Natasha and headed up to Boulder to take in the pedestrian mall.
I wandered in fuzzy complacency, but found that my appetite for plying OldMiner with booze (and imbibing some for myself) had waned enough to be limited to some port and a Pandora's Bach. Back at the ranch, well-sated, we passed out.
I left out the trip up the mountain to a somewhat isolated lodge. Said lodge had okay food, which in among the usual Americana fare, had gyoza stuffed with elk and rattlesnake I recall the port being good, the company being exhausted (on both sides), and once again failing to take the floor when we got back to OM's place.
Overhead, the mountain burned on.