there was an entry earlier. say, 4 am. i was drunk. it is gone. swept under the tired and proverbial carpet, as these things should be. o the power of delete!
before anything else. this is a very, very good documentary. i was lucky enough to catch it a couple of days ago on pbs. kind of thing that makes you not want to speak for a while after watching, makes you want to enlist in something. something. see, this is the problem.
and massoud is dead now.
they thought of everything. they really did. and we're still deluding ourselves, thinking that we're safe, that war or no war we'll overpower, overcome, and go back to watching friends and deciding between pantene and vidal sassoon and ascribing ludicrous importance to barbecues?
well. if there is nothing to enlist in, maybe we should go out and get drunk instead. at this point i think i can justify relegating my liver to afterthought status.
went to tobacco road with patrick and tatiana for patrick's 24th birthday pre-celebration. they ate and i drank. yuppies everywhere and you know what, frighteningly enough it was a welcome change. the house jazz band was really fucking good. trumpet player brought p & t's food to our table, picked up his trumpet, and launched into an accomplished solo. bebop, "fly me to the moon." tatiana said, "they could really use a singer." i wondered for the millionth, billionth, i've-lost-count-by-now time, what in hell am i doing here?
oh i am so bitter. watch me be bitter.
and so we left. sat out by the docks next to my apartment building with a twelve-pack of beer, drank, disclosed entirely too much information, the usual antics.
the ceiling slants in tobacco road. i was sitting right under the curve of the slant. got up and whacked my head HARD. woke up at seven this morning, deathly hung over with my brain pounding like it was trying to force a getaway. let me tell you, aleve is the miracle drug.
what a horrible entry. i'm sorry. i've lost my journaling drive, i'm afraid.
