Through the pulsing fog of my hangover, I dimly recall meeting some friends (who are, come to think of it, pretty much always around when I get drunker than a mouse in a whirlwind) last night at a neighborhood bar.
I overdid it on the whisky and the belligerent pronouncements — “You wanna know whash wrong with the New York Timesh? I’ll tell you ecks-sackly whash wrong with it!” — and all hell broke loose when Dana discovered a bidet in the bathroom. I woke up this morning feeling like a very small man had run around inside me and punched his way out of my stomach. Between recovery and developments pertinent to the day job, posting will be light.