What is so mesmerizing about a quarter inch of beer?It’s more than I might want    but a binge for a fruit fly. One-by-one they muscle up to the bar        take a sip,list off the barstool        dead drunk        then just dead. And yet—      body floating,      wings askew,      each one takes a little tipple        before the big sleep. The saloon’s amber walls rise        slick and slippery.None of the fruit flies        trust their wings. Continue reading Buzz Kill by Dale Champlin