Do You Love Cookbooks?

Phew. For a minute there -- word to rice -- I was getting a little nervous being the sole* PK contributor stationed on the ROK of Gibraltar. Then Mr. Giant Squid Fodder returned, and I can now breathe easy. Word to asthma inhalers.

Yes, friends and neighbors, Psychedelic Kimchi's resident doppelganger, the illustrious and praiseworthy KMart, after a particularly nasty bout of SARS (remember SARS?) has returned to these hallowed shores from The New World. Babies stop crying, women start having orgasms again.

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I'd like to claim

(I have the world's greatest smile)

that I have mastered my high, that I possess an indestructible tolerance for grown-up beverages such as imported German beers, Tennessee Sippin' Whisky, and, occasionally, manatee placenta; but the stone cold truth is that it's all in Dionysus's hands, and -- occasionally -- I catch a Len Bias.

It happens.

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It happened last night. Recipe for disaster: give a young, handsome man a 9-day vacation, place him in an environment in which he can freely and comfortably imbibe liquor and smoke cigarettes like they were going out of style (or going up in price), and place a comely lass on the stool next to him**.

Only. Human.

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Still, though I remember little, I regret much. Fuck the SI cover jinx, when Messrs Highly and Forbes share a room, beverages in hands, only one may stand, the other fall.

Last night was my turn. I could analyze exactly how and why -- but, as my svengali reassured me last night as I hung my numb head over an unforgiving porcelain ring, it happens.

Happens to the best.

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Ah, indulgence.



* word to fillets

** Hold up, that doesn't sound right.