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Notes on Napkins

Writing notes on napkins, in a sense, is such an ancient cliché, but when you're by yourself having a drink in a bar, it beats the alternatives, which are gazing endlessly—like a self-absorbed dope succumbing to mind-numbing consequences—into the idiot-slab (iPhone), or making conversation with someone I meet, which I may enjoy, but then again, sometimes it's just better to write than speak. And bar napkins and a pen are always available.
 
Writing requires thought; speech does not. I can attest to this fact. When forced to speak, I usually have no control over the thoughts I dredge up from the depths of my insanity (we're all basically insane, and it's how we project our insanity verbally that determines if we are normal or not, a determination which is quite subjective and based on the insanity of the person hearing the words), and after a few drinks, all bets are off. Who really knows, or can effectively plan and manage, which words will spring forth and in what order?
 
If forced to speak, it's important to realize that conversations in a bar have a one-drink limit. Meet someone for a drink, catch up and say all the meaningful words, if there are any, then get the hell out. As I learned from an old customer friend, after the first hour in a bar, the law of diminishing returns kicks in, meaning that with each passing minute, any value—meaningful or memorable in any way—diminishes until you get to the stage of regurgitated, uncensored ramblings, which is a sure—though not obvious—sign that it's time to go home, slip into your casket, and hope that you'll rise from the dead with the sun to see another day and relish the time you have to suffer and harbor the spoken regrets of the prior evening.
 
Drinking alone, in most cases, eliminates many potential problems, and writing instead of speaking offers the much-needed steps of thought, review, and revision, and revision, and revision . . .

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