it’s like a black hole—no info escapes

my source—all i know is that he has been surly about football in any discussions, and since he’s a huge football fan and donor, he’s just been REALLY surly

i’ve been reluctant to ask him directly- yet

must have lots of liquor first….

(Yes, TJ’s comments read like “line up and shut up”—which I understand on a “rah rah, let’s start the season fresh front”

but as a (semi) intelligent fan with functioning eyes, and being over a 20 yr donor, i rather resent

His comments made me squeamish about TJ leaving again —that I don’t want to see

Yeah, Tom, rah, rah

but now

game 1

...Now, to play “Find Frank,” for me, at least, would be difficult. Since I have seen neither Frank nor his picture.
I would assume he is NOT the dashing young man in triplicate at the post’s bottom (Hey Denny, I wore an outfit like that on my first day of work and my boss asked me if I could lend him a pair of sunglasses).
I would assume that he is not the youngster with the Mondo Afro “posting up” down low (I’m still lookin’ for a picture of Charles Jones for you, Frank).
So in this nighttime edition of Hollywood Squares I will take Paul Lynde to block and turn my attention to the hirsute gentleman in the picture with the trio of students and the ”#1” banner.

Frank would be the gent on the left. Handsome dog. Life in front of him and maybe a small packet of herb deep down in the small left pocket of his valise for later. Back at the hotel bar he would sip Makers Mart and feel the sting, but not the hurt, of the semi final loss. All the hurts would come later, but on this night it was still all in front of him, and as he munched peanuts and drained another bourbon, a winsome blonde named “Paige” brushed his shoulder and then slid onto the bar stool next to him. She smelled of peaches.
And Frank thought about the game, and the loss, and the blonde, and about how sometime, not all the time, but sometime, how wondrous life could be.

That you’d be sipping something not bonded in the Commonwealth, but I have to admit that from time to time I’ve sampled some George Dickel.
Good picture of you, though, even if I got everything wrong.
The Saratoga meet in on. Great old place. Never overcrowded during the week. You can haul in your own coolers with beer, soda, sandwiches. You can get up close and watch the jocks saddle the ponies. Slow pace. A piece of the past.

The summer moves on. In four months it will be time for basketball.
Roz

not as nice as Keeneland though : – )

Black Jack of course is not technically “bourbon”

but it was owned by Brown Forman in Louisville—and my dad worked there for over 30 yrs (I was a tour guide at the distillery as a U of L student in the summers0

good ole Southern boys downed a few black Jacks and coke back then

before the much smoother, single barrel bourbons like Woodford Reserve (my fav) took over

I like Woodford, too, and a guy at work game me a Baker’s 107, small batch bottle. But all this stuff is so expensive. Nothing wrong with Evan Williams, a decent grog, and at a fair price.
A guy on the food channel (Has it come to that, Roz….has it come to that!?) did a story about sandwiches and in one segment he landed in Louisville. Was it Brown’s Hotel? Hot Brown Sandwich? Sounded good. Not light fair. Not nouvelle cuisine. Butter, bacon, turkey, heavy cream. Mmmm. Served with a frosty tankard of gravy.

I don’t know about you guys, but I’m gonna church-key the cap of another Adirondack Amber, go into the kitchen and make me about four Hot Brown Sandwiches, slowly become ensconced in my favorite soft chair, eat all the Hot Brown’s, and root like hell for the Yankees against Baltimore.
Just in case you wanted to know.