If you're going to have that much LA in January, then why not a little more. I was perusing a little bit of Bukowski last night and here an excerpt of is his poem "quiet in a quiet night."
(note: a posthumous publication from a guy who knows he's dying.)
"I can feel myself getting fat, old, and
stupid.
I wheeze putting on my shoes.
I am no longer sure if I have years
left, months left, weeks left,
days left
or is the last minute is arrowing
in.
no matter.
this bottle of 1983
Saint-Emilion Grand Cru Classe
still rings the damned gong,
at least I've avoided sitting around
with the other old farts
sorting out unprecious
memories
the young are no help either,
they are shining mirrors without
reflection....
"this is an excellent wine.
it connects me with infinity.
a man without wine is like a fish without
water,
a bird without wings.
wine runs in the blood of the tiger
and me....
"it is a beautiful night."