So we were drinking last night. I know you're thinking what everyone else is saying, "all you trainwreckers do is drink." But Chekhov said in Uncle Vanya "[I drink] because it gives me the illusion that I might be alive. I like that.
Drinking puts one into situations. Some of the darkness of the night is only accessibly when intoxicated. It's not for everyone, but neither is Becket.
Pablo, as is his wont, was pulled away by an angry woman. The rest of us ended up back at the Grad, where the nicest girl in the world works, Mo.
It was there that I met Tiff Dressen. Tiff Dressen is one of the cooler people I have met in recent months. She talked a lot about Kelsey Street Press, which, thanks to Clay Banes, I actually know about. I hardly know anything, see. Normally my face would screw about my nose at the thought of a women-only club, but I would be wrong were that my reaction to this one. Sometimes we all have to grin and bear the obvious double standards that pervade contemporary gender issues in order to see the twinkling stars through the miasma. . . I guess.
We ended up sharing a street home, and we spoke about the things one speaks about at three AM with friends. There are certain nights on which one moment can turn the sting of drink-regret into an appreciation of the sweet core of the licorice night.
I read a little of her stuff today, and find it quite Susie. I hope you do to.
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Geoffrey G. O'Brien kind of saved my life this week. . . seriously. For his gallant intervention and candor, I personally excuse him for not going to Nabalom, Nabolom!
Clayton Banes, a Trainwreck Union member, has called in too many favors already lately to get more time away from work and sleep, so he won't be coming, but he's excused, too, with a tear.
What's your excuse? Most simply do not have one good enough to miss the impending disaster this evening at Nabolom Bakery.
See the flyer at the bottome of this page for more info.
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