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Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Borgovian Martini Fascists

I suck giant Borgovian Land Worm toenails when it comes to remembering birthdays. Really. If it weren’t for those alerts that Facebook throws at me, I’d miss every last one of my chum's happy-joy-joy events. If a pal isn’t on MugMag, Cake Day will likely pass by unobserved by yurs truly. A week later, I’ll remember, feel simply awful and send a thousand apologies and invitations to take the friend out for a celebratory drinkie. You can count on it.

One exception to this sad tendency of mine is this—if your day is in August, I’m inclined to remember. Not the precise day mind you but def that it happens sometime during this month. Why? Well, shit and boyhowdy, MY big day is this month too! (the 18th in case anyone’s keeping track)

This is how I remembered that a pal ‘o’ mine who I’ve not seen in maybe 15 years or so, is having a birthday soon. Jim’s birthday is this month—maybe today. Naturally, I’m unsure.

Just in case…


Jim was (probably still is) a big going concern in the biz community—some big league marketing mucky muck. You may wonder, how did you and some suit become buds, Donna? You're a spectacularly unlikely friend match up, are you not?

For starters, he wasn’t (isn’t) just a suit and most certainly NOT an empty one. I forget how we met but imagine it was at one of the 50 bazillion parties or clubs I frequented back then. Jim was a music appreciator (like moi!) which makes T.T.s or The Middle East a good bet.

Jim was in the process of moving here, with wife and kids, from one of the Carolinas (natch, I forget which) to work for one of the budding Biotech concerns in Kendall Square. This was at the very beginning of the industry’s terraforming of that gritty Cambridge neighborhood that Jen, Oni, The Amazing Bob and I called home.

Ultimately, Massachusetts didn’t agree with Jim en famiglia. They were used to a more reasonable, temperate clime. You know, an area with four seasons but little, if any, snowfall (except in the mountains) and no months on end of below freezing temps. What can I say, re: cold and snow, us New Englanders are  semi hardcore (Canadians—now they’re hard core!).

So then, what happened? Eh, they moved out West which is where, I believe, they originally hailed from. Utah maybe. I know the place was chock full of bodacious ski resorts and the snow out there, Jim claimed, was infinitely superior. Not being a skier, I took his word for it.

Part of the reason I was a wee bit moofy that he decamped was that Jim was one of my best models EVAH. It helped that he was a triathlete. Yeah, between the biz stuff and the athleticism, we had, pretty much, fuck-all in common BUT he was a lot of fun.

I credit Jim with turning me into Martini Fascist. Yup—martinis are made of gin (preferably Sapphire), the barest whisper of Vermouth and an olive. As a change up, jalapeño stuffed olives are acceptable. Anything else is a cocktail. A drink is NOT a martini just because you serve it in a martini glass.


Jim, if you’re out there, I’ll tip a martini in your honor tonight.

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