The martinis at Christopher's are amazing. Overpriced and luscious. I have determined that they put fresh basil in everything, which this morning suddenly doesn't seem worth the extra five bucks as my head is pounding and my wallet is feeling considerably lighter. In fact, the revelation that my two drinking buddies last night confessed that McCain was their man in November is unsettling, although here in south Georgia such statements are not so uncommon among the white middle-class. I laughed it off and suggested that neither read my column this week which is titled "McC*Ain't". I didn't ask either of them why they object to the Democratic candidates, because I was buzzed and hopeful that someone might want to pick up my tab. In some circles, this might make me a martini whore. However, here in the Deep South it's also a matter of manners. Arguing politics with kind people who only want to relax after work would be rude. What's more, I seriously doubt that I can change anyone's mind in the midst of a cocktail conversation. I learned this back when I was a Christian teenager. All of those gospel tracts I earnestly handed out were quite a waste of good southern pine trees.

In any case, I paid for my own drinks. And, when My Lai somehow came up in the conversation, I assured them that I would never ever buy a piece of jewelry from former Lt. Calley over in Columbus, GA. I don't care how misguided a soul anyone tries to portray the man.

NTD, the diehard liberal hand who tries to wear the (sometimes tight) velvet glove of kindness