So after Josie’s Party, my favorite part of the evening was walking to Santa Monica from Venice at night in the heavy rain. I donned a yellow rainjacket, rubber soled shoes and a red umbrella. Concealed in my pocket was a still half-full and newly resurrected Circle of Sin. I’m heading to this place that used to be called Schatzi’s on Main street in Santa Monica. I have no idea what the place is called now.

It’s my friend Kindred Khan’s birthday. I’ve got some Bushmill’s in my pocket. I’m going to see a bunch of good friends. WooHoo! At the restaurant, I meet up with my friends Patricia and Stu. *Stu is not his real name. It’s a name he made up himself, an alter ego who gets by with much more mayhem and drunkenness than the normal – Oi! – dude. Stu is a Super-man to the local Venice bar scene, if you will. I know his day-time persona, his Clark Kent equivalent, but Stu’s secret is safe with me!* Stu’s girlfriend sent him out for ice cream this rainy night, but he’s somehow made it here with us, instead of to the store. It’s too bad she’s not here, she’s one of the friends I was hoping to see tonight.

So, Stu and Patricia and I are hanging out in the rained-out swank of the club/bar place. I’m lounging on a vinyl couch in my rain jacket in some dim red light under an industrial pop-out tent. Nice enough. I can see the rain and feel a few renegade drops, but all I hear is ambient dance music.

“Hey, check this out,” Patricia says as she hands me a menu.

I open the red and white ribboned book. It’s a bottle menu. $650.00 for a bottle of Dom and 250.00 for any flavor of Absolut. Excellent.

“Hey, check this out,” I say as I pull out the Circle of Sin and begin to pass it around.

“Excellent,” purrs Stu, who takes a pull.

“Although I’m thinking it needs a new name,” I said, “Since it’s really not shaped like a circle . . ”

Stu recaps the flask and grunts with a Spanish accent, “It is . . . the Cortez of Sin!” He beats his chest and heart with his free hand while he holds the . . . Cortez of Sin(?) . . . high in the air.

Patricia is half-Mexican descent and speaks perfect spanish. She looks confused. “What’s ‘Cortez?’” she asks.

“Oi!” says Stu still in his Conquistador-voice, “You know, the heart!”

Patricia laughs. “That’s corazon!”

“Yeah, well, Cortez was a conquistador . . . ” I offer.

“Even Better! A con-QU-ista-Dor! Who had a heart!” says Stu.

I think the verdict is still out as to the new name of this flask. Cortez was indeed a conquistador. A successful one. He destroyed the Aztec empire in the early 1500′s. So, no Cortez of Sin for me, thank you. Any suggestions on a brand name for this new flask are appreciated. Chances are if you are reading this, that someday you’ll drink from it!

I once had this little pewter flask, usually containing Jack Daniel’s, that I carried with me everywhere. On one of it’s many romps, the little flask was nicknamed “The Circle of Sin,” and thus the tradition of takin’ a wee nip o’ the flask with every new acquaintance was born. Anytime I’d introduce myself to someone, we’d have to seal the new friendship with a draw from my trusty canteen.

I’ve carried the Circle of Sin with me to at least five countries, three islands, probably twenty states and across two continents. It’s been dropped, danced on and dinged repeatedly. It’s been thrown in the air, tossed across rooms and bounced off of heads. Everybody from old ladies to strangers sitting next to me at sad movies have known the Circle. Sadly, it eventually got so dinged up that the cap would no longer unscrew without difficulty. So, I just bought a giant bottle of Bushmill’s and kept that in my car.

Realizing that carting around an open container of whiskey isn’t the most sane, safe or legal thing to do, I kept an eye out for a new flask, and that’s about the time that I parked my car, whiskey and all and set off for DC, where I eventually picked up a new whiskey vessel. I kept wanting to bust out this new Circle of Sin, but the new flask was neither a circle, nor was it big enough at the time to quench my sinful thirst for the water of life. Work was stressful and although similar in size to it’s predecessor, this shiny new thing seemed no larger than a thimble.

Since the fall, I’ve relaxed a little bit. I came home to my parked car around Christmas, which was covered in bird poop, and under a stack of blankets, found my nearly full Bushmill’s bottle . . . and haven’t yet had a sip. Haven’t really wanted to . . . but today is the perfect day to celebrate and bring anew into the world the tradition of “The Circle of Sin.” (Well . . . except that whole thing about how the new one isn’t really shaped like a circle, so much as it’s shaped like a shield.)

My friend Nan is having a party to celebrate the life of her Mother, Josie, who passed away around Thanksgiving. I knew Josie and loved her smile and zest for life. So this afternoon at Josie’s party, I’m bringing along my virgin flask. And the first sip will hit the ground for Josie, and then we’ll mingle, the flask and I, getting to know all of Josie’s friends and sending toasts her way. I know she’d be smiling.