Diary of a Mad Man
By Christopher Munroe
I work hard, I play hard.
Except when I’m too tired to play hard.
Then, I head home and pour myself three fingers of scotch. Single-malt, twelve-year or older, this is the bare minimum.
Scotch acquired, the next step’s an album from the fifties. I’d love vinyl, but I don’t have that budget, so my ipod and dock has to do.
Sinatra, Holiday, Coward, Fitzgerald, there are a number I alternate between depending on my mood, but the point is setting atmosphere.
Because I am too tired to play.
And sometimes a man needs a more civilized way to relax…