In a relic (one of the few I have left) of my time as a card-carrying member of the media elite, I am on a mailing list for an occasional New York City get-together called “Drinks With Journalists.”

I don’t think I’ve ever gone - we moved to the sticks a while back - but I still get the emails. Sorta nice, recherche du temps perdu and all that. We were reporters once and young....

I digress. (Unbelievable but true, I used to be proud I worked for The New York Times.)

Anyway. As you might imagine, the parties stopped a while back, because Covid.

But last month, an email popped up in my box, Drinks With Journalists was back. Dec. 16. 6 p.m. A bar in Brooklyn (naturally).

“A march to a re-opened world… we thought everyone could use a drink.” Amen to that.

Now, the organizers weren’t taking any chances. They had chosen a place that had lots of seating “outside and well-ventilated.” And they wanted everyone vaccinated, which meant my perfect record of non-attendance would continue. (I admit, I did wonder what kind of reception I’d get if I showed. Probably best not to find out.)

Still, I was glad to see the invite. For two years, Brooklyn has been filled with scared people stuck in little apartments. Good on them to break the spell.

Yesterday, they confirmed the party was a go: “the festivities tomorrow evening are very much on.”

Or not. About two hours ago this popped up in my mailbox:

Just to be clear.

These are vaccinated people. Almost all under 50, certainly 60. Meeting outside.

Except they’re not, because of the theoretical spread of a variant that is almost surely less dangerous to them than whatever they’re drinking. On the advice of an epidemiologist who I will just about bet wanted the schools closed for all of last year and believes the only thing better than two masks is three.

Hella way to live.

Tell you what, any journo who wants a drink tonight can take the train up to our house. No vaccine card required.