The writer at work.

Missed opportunity?

Maybe, maybe not. Taking a short laydown today knowing there's no way I'm fading out.
My dogs lounging along side, close to going out, just like clockwork. My mind's trying to fight off the thoughts but maybe I'm not really tired, possibly just bored. Four to five PM has always been tough for me. Too early to drink, too late to keep working, my twilight zone. Enough of that and on to the thoughts. I'm out on a production trip. We're shooting a job for Leo Burnett, but I'm on my own this evening and thus arrange to meet my good friends Tom and Marion Flanagan for a few cocktails and dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Santa Monica. The dinner kicks off fast with several Marguaritas at the get go and then vino and then dinner. We're revved up, not on drugs but soaring with evil liquid. I'm thinking, I gotta do it, I can not let the Flanagan's down. I pop out of my chair, shuffle between the tables, do a little move then do the patented spin move into a full drop down Gator, pop back up, a little more shuffle then down again, just for emphasis. If you did not see it the first time then maybe the second. The Flanagan's laughing, the Noble smiling, I sit down. A girl at the next table, eating with her parents, rushs over and says "I work with Steven Spielberg and would like your card" I have no cards on me so suggest she write her number on a piece of paper, in this case, my parking ticket. Slow forward to the next day, a bit hung over I remember the girl and hunt for the number. Guess what, I gave it to the parking attendant that night. What! I drove over to the restaurant at lunch, tickets gone, went downtown. Gone. Moral: what alcohol giveth, alcohol can taketh away.

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