I have a bad memory. I don’t know if that is because I am not good at paying attention, or because I have some kind of intellectual failing, or because I had a traumatic brain injury that my loved ones have kept from me for kind or nefarious reasons.
In any case, I talk a lot and remember very little of what I’ve said. I’d like to think that I remember more of what others have said, but I’m not sure that’s true. And I remember even less when I have been drinking, which means that after two glasses of beer, you can assume that you will have to remind me of anything important we’ve discussed.
This brings me to this past weekend, which began with an open bar event on Friday and ended with a booze-soaked Sunday. It was a doozy. On our way to the Sunday morning farmer’s market, we were waved into Fly by the bartenderman, who proceeded to force upon us a round of sake bombs.