As night fell on Loutsville and engraved whisky glasses rang hollow-but-well-used, you could hear the far-away cries of the Whip-poor-will, warbling its woeful song amidst some dusky Frangipani…
At night’s end, was there a dry eye to be found? (No Brian, that’s “eye,” not “fly”.) I think all would agree that the quiet comforts of a well-made fire, a few boon and fish-fragrant companions, a flagon of sturdy malt to beat back the evening chill, the pleasingly obvious arc of an oft-told joke, and one of those decent bow-ties that doesn’t require much knowledge of knots, yes, those are the very essence of masculine amusement! Hooray! Here’s to 2009!