Supplementary moonlight.

Julia Roxburgh Tea cups (British recent)


The group had arrived at the three week-marker of Mike's bachelor party when I just sorta snapped into an incredible wild peace.

I don't know which of big Bill's sorrows are sweeter, that this party's over or that I can't use the light as an excuse any longer--with a straight face. I sounded like a douche when I tried to talk--just never quite got the tone right, but also, in my defense and in defense of that peace through which some hue of self-love must have run--without the screeching din of narcissism for once--never quite got that 'shut up dummy' self-incrimination blue. Line of the evening came in Mike's puzzling over an old girlfriend, saying he couldn't believe they ever had sex because they were so bone-skinny that their hips colliding must've sounded like someone "banging together two tea cups". Later I tried to pass along some mac & cheese to foxy girls at The Castel but what came out was a bunch of leery words coated too thickly in vomit and too thinly in platonic diplomacy to not earn a slap in the face. How did I not get slapped in the face. Maybe I got slapped in the face. Also I think we watched Steel Magnolias.

Anyhow I awoke in a fugue moment, with a hot cup of coffee in one hand, re-reading a favorite old New York Times article, this one on the notorious pianist/fraud, Joyce Hatto. Regaining my wits I showered and, in dressing, discovered the distilled essence of my baseness: I refuse to spend a few bucks at a drug store for a sewing kit to mend up the hole in my shorts out of which my dick keeps falling at inappropriate times.

But I'm not gonna let myself get all bent out of shape over it. Please pardon all ensuing and prior instances of blurting nudity. I'd truthfully do the same for you.