Rainy days and Mondays.

In Cave time, Wednesday equals the world's Monday and 2 p.m. equals the world's 8 a.m.  I would say 9 a.m., it seems the world was once a 9-5 sort of idea, but everyone I know seems to start at 8.  The leaf blowers across the street start around 6: 30.  A.m.  Awesome, but I digress.  So that when your resident troglodyte comes to work Wednesday @ 2 p.m., that is equivalent to much of the world beginning their workweek Monday at 8 a.m.  Monday at 8 a.m. gathers a workforce in commiserate fraternity: the weekend is over, now gather we to our shared drudgery.

Wednesday at 2 p.m. has no such fraternity.  It has a world in full swing, both in week and day, chomping at the bit.  There are no sympathies and there is no easing into it. There is only gamble: everyone will descend, someone will descend, no one will descend.

Around 4 a.m, just before I finally called it a "night," clearly the gamble had been made:  no one will descend.

In the best of ways I was very wrong. 

Very soon after opening today, look who graces us with a visit.  Gil! Gil (along with Mr. Day) built The Cave.  Gil has wine here still ... minus one.  It turns out Gil is a very bad influence.

By 2:30 this place was bustling, and I got to introduce Gil to quite a few people.  "This is Gil.  He built The Cave."  What a privilege to be able to say that.

The wine gone missing was a 1993 Raymond Reserve Napa Valley Cab.  The early California cabs - well made, sturdy, they hold up over time and drink well.








Tough job, this drudgery, but someone has to do it and that privilege is mine.  Cheers, Gil.