I stopped by Hi-Time (the local beer-slash-wine-slash-anything alcoholic or gourmet shop) this evening on the way home from work. While there, I ended up getting stuck in a neverending conversation with Hannibal Lecter, only older, more dorkier, and not as suave.
Wait, let me rewind a bit. I am a crazy magnet. The crazy guy on the bus that is trying to talk to himself over the volume of his headphones? He is there to talk to me. The guy at the coffee shop with one pant leg and a piece of string hanging out of his mouth? He's there for me. Crazy people just want to talk to me. It is as if I have a sign on my forehead in special ink that says, “I am here for YOU!” and all the crazy people have special glasses that allow them to see the ink.
So, anyway, back to Hannibal. Well, he was not quite Hannibal, but he had the same shaped skull. He was also crazy. Not wearing-leapord-print-kilts-in-public crazy, but crazy nonetheless. It was very subtle. You could not point at something like having eyes that roll in opposite directions, or talk about a specific trait LIKE alternately SCREAMING words OUT really LOUD. His insanity was more obscure, but still there.
The conversation started briefly with beer, then went to the price of things nowadays, then his younger days, then he talked about how much he hated his wife. I do not know about you, but this seems like a rather odd topic of conversation to bring up with a complete stranger in an alcohol store. He then talked a bit about his kid(s) (5 more years until he's FINALLY done with school) and segued back into the wife-hating thing. He then went to wine. He gave me all sorts of useful advise about wine. I should buy the cheap wine in the little airplane bottle 4-packs at the supermarket. I should soak off the labels and paste them into a journal so I write down what I thought about them (mentally picturing the cRaZy JoUrNaLs from such fine films as Se7en and Red Dragon). I should go to wine tasting parties. I should look for this rare wine from Austria and buy it by the case.
Somehow I managed to extract myself from the conversation. As an experiment, I picked up a Pumpkin flavored ale, mentally picturing some hybrid between the pumpkin juice and butter-beer the Harry Potter kids drink. It actually ended up being quite good. I now drink my pumpkin beer and eat my pseudo-home-made pumpkin pie while listening to scratchy old big band jazz as I type this. (It is pie from a can–I have yet to try Stimps' recipe, but hope to do so this weekend.)