Updated: Dec 28, 2020
It's one thing to see a man dragged out by two waiters and quite another when most patrons leave sloppy drunk. After all, this is a classy joint with gardenias for the ladies and carnations for gentlemen. Something's in the air tonight and it's not Chanel No. 5 perfume.
Finally, my crispy barbecued squab arrives. I'm famished, tear it apart with my bare hands and devour like a cavewoman. That's odd because I normally use a fork and knife. The room starts to flash in and out. Now I am feeling strange.
I've had this feeling before. Someone slipped a Mickey in my Zombie. The room is spinning.