The Crossing

At the Crossing, down the street from the university, for services of the First Church of Pan-Slavic Hedonism, I was rarely in attendance. Even back then, before control of my drinking was abandoned to oblivion, I preferred to drink alone. Unless I am merely one of the crowd, I do not like to be but one of the crowd. I do not lead. I do not follow. Also, as a full-blooded Brythonic Cymric Celt, my drink was whisky. Beer was cat piss; wine, just a trifle too refined for my blood of blue. In Wales, we say, not only to ourselves, In a rich man’s house, the only place to spit is in his face. Of course, the rich, back then, in Wales, were mostly Saxons, whom we hated, and had every right to hate, on principle, at least, already, regardless of economic status.