Activities for K's send-off continue. Coffee with a late dinner is dangerous. It's nothing like the typical coked out Mondays of most Los Angeles residents but it's enough to keep a convo going for a coupla hours past the valets shift.
The night ended with a cup of coffee that went cold. The food at the Dresden Room tastes like you'd think. The place smells like the inside of a wig and looks like the fanciest food joint ever presented in a Bogart flick. The waiter advised K against pork chops because the guy who usually cooks a good chop wasn't working tonight. The other guy was on. "What else should we have?" "What's good?" we asked. He tells us, "Everything else is good." Imagine a chef whose only failure is the pork chop and you can imagine the Dresden.
All this coffee and wind and earthquakin has syncopated my circadian rhythm. I think I have been suffering from an elevated perceived predation risk for sometime. Staying up late waiting for earthquakes and text messages has caused me to adopt the same sleeping schedule I had in 1996. Syncopated, for those of you that don't know, is stress on a normally unstressed beat. Dig that. And dig this.
Other things I have been digging are this, this, and this.