Aparrently (so my Palm Pilot tells me) I wrote the following on Saturday night. I have only the faintest recollection of doing so. Warning: Absurd drunken pomposity follows…
This may or may not be a good time to attempt a blog post. Especially due to the defecits in technology under which I now labor, I am unable to compellingly demonstrate that as I write this I am utterly inebriated (to the extent of some two or three magnificent dozen standard drinks in the past five hours, and imbibed in excellent company) so I will write anyway and be damned if anyone believes that I did write this while aboard the nightrider bus, at 2am.
This night I have learnt what all the fuss is about Jamaican Rum, I have renewed my deep-seated belief that the trendiest and most visible restaurants are often the worst, and I have regained the confidence I once had that getting sloshed with good friends in the wee-small hours can be a profoundly relaxing and entertaining experience. As the bus I am aboard heels hard a-starboard into blackburn road and I finally begin to fall victim to the sleep regulatory chemicals in my bloodstream, The Scissor Sisters play “don’t feel like dancin'”, and I am somehow profoundly content. I wish young Joshua the best on that fair road down which he has stepped boldly so much further than I.