mixology

CONTENT WARNING: Bad science

I suspect an insidious substance in the blood on my brown side. There is an ebb and flow over generations, aberrations—those Indian doctors, yes—but on the whole the poets begat poets, poets, lyricists₁, married actresses, and in a less romantic age spawn directors and graphic designers, other shiny, hip types. Over my strenuous objections, my little brother begins a film program next week; my sister's wrapping up an only slightly less dubious degree in art. Of the three of us, it appears I'm circulating the highest proportion of what for lack of a gene sequencer I'll call Irish practicality₂.

Anyway, the reason I started on that: This is an e-mail from my mother to my visiting cousin—a jazz musician (see!)—on returning his rented double bass to the store.

Well, I have to admit I have more respect for you and your less-than-obvious strength after having (wo)man-handled that ho of a bass into the car today and returned her to the brothel. How the hell do you manage in your car?! You did explain that she sits next to you but, really... Intense. And then the first thing she does around the first turn is slide around like some drunk. Luckily her pimps were perfectly happy with her condition so all is well. I'll suggest flute next time.

Folks, there is nothing like the color of the confluence.
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1. True story. SICK GRAPHICS.
3. This trait evidently not correlated with our respective shades of beige.