Gotterdammerung

Setting: Early Saturday morning...Mackey's couch. I'm alive, at least on some immoderate level. Allow me to show you as best I can what was going on inside my skull:

Get the idea? I swear Mad Max and The Lord Humongous were chasing each other in what once was a reasonably active mind. All motor control, gone. Attempts to rise...utterly fucked. Well, seems like it must be the sixth of September.

You see, I rarely lose memories or blackout. Believe me, that's not always a good thing. I've seen shit that'll turn you white with febrile confusion. As for most of my birthday, as Mackey has recounted, I put on a drinking clinic before succumbing to unconsciousness. The truly great part of a real nasty birthday tear is the hostility your friends really have for you. Oh sure, it's great fun...till you see furtive giggles as one "friend" slinks off to a far bartender. Said sumbitch or third-rate tart won't comeback with a stout bourbon. No, those hours are passed by and by (along with respectability). Instead, Patron rears its nasty sombrero. Jager hunts. The bow legged woman demands an audience. Any number of drinks that end with -zee's and -drops follow at a pretanatural pace. The Valkyries were definitely choosers of the slain that night.

Feh. I'm glad this sort of power-drinking only comes round once a year. Always nice to have it around Labor Day and the start of football season...makes the transition into Drinksgiving that much easier. Still, the hangover was impressive and defied description. It was a definite badge of honor.

Many thanks to all those for their well wishes and I salute the drinking buddies from Friday night. I won't forget it, you bastards. Heaven help the next one of you with a reason to celebrate.