White Russians and old times intersect somewhere in Maryland.

It seems that the Rolling Rock gathers no sobriety.

The gang, once assembled, quickly becomes a slippery mess of alcohol and pulled pork, but I suspect that the mess centered largely around me.

I finally met the younger sister that Kim had been telling me about, and she was even more foxey then had been previously reported.

It turns out that we both occasionally frequent the same bar in Brooklyn, and I'll surely increase my frequency now that I've learned this.

I catch drink after drink and somehow manage to forget her name along the way, not that I can recall ever learning it in the first place. Never-the-less, I am disappointed in myself for not even attempting to initiate and exchange of phone numbers.

I'll have to write Kim and get the inside scoop.

I hope I didn't make too much of an ass of myself, at least, no more then I usually do.