The Trumpster has left town and the stink of dated and obsolete mentalities-slash-disease has gone with him. The loony lefties who constitute part of the imperative opposition to the Trumpster — and whose placards were funny and true, and whom one has to endure because ‘the lesser of two evils’ and all that — have gone, too. The day is Saturday, the sun is out, a pretty day to bask in the summer heat and do some quality reading before heading jack home to do a bit of writing (finish an #AppearancesTheNewManuscript story) then watch the Wimbledon men’s singles semifinal (carried over from yesterday) and the women’s singles final — so I find a good spot in a quiet place and they bring me this menu, and I’m thinking, Jeez, this is tempting (did you notice the typo earlier on? the one that itches for a shot of Kentucky’s finest?) but this is not the time for meditations of the fermented kind (the place it most definitely is, and was, field of dreams, delicious madness, but that’s another story) so I’ll take a raincheck on the gins, the single malts, and all other fine libations, happy in the memory of days spent in the warm glow of breakfast Jack and sundry, knowing that I’ve been there, done that, and boy was it smashing fun, but now it’s time to eat some food and get some exercise (mental and physical) and finish those stories (others’ and mine) and look forward to a few days of smash-the-party when — and only when — the job’s done.