4/27/02 The verdict is in,

4/27/02

The verdict is in, and it is thus: I really need to start writing these things earlier. Something that would have been brilliant at midnight, clever at 1am and vaguely interesting at 2am turns to outright mush at 3:41am as I write this. By now, fatigue turns otherwise complicated thoughts into bivalent minutiae.

Suffice to say this: we drove back to Brooklyn today (on what turned out to be, most annoyingly, the prettiest day to have stayed at the farm) in order to attend Andrew Cohen’s party for Colin Soloway. Tessa remarked that it was very old-school and proper in a delightfully WASP-y sort of way that Andrew felt the need to give a party in the returning conqueror’s honor. There was great food (sushi, roast beef on spicy bread) and drinks, and the scenery was interesting in that New York literati sort of way. All the women were fascinatingly high-maintenance, and I must still be a rou, because I can’t remember any of the guys.

Michelle came with us, and Kim Ludlow met us there. Late arrivals included my agent Jenny Bent, who is more properly Colin’s agent until I get my writing act back together. I wore an all-black outfit with those stupid clown shoes Mom bought for us in California. They make me about 6’4″, but any height advantage is nixed by self-mockery and early-90s fashion trendlessness.

The Celextant, April 27, 2002

I was plowing through a bourbon & coke and a really bad cosmopolitan before I remembered Tessa talking about how bad alcohol is for SSRI’s. I recalled how beat-up I felt in Los Angeles after a night of vodka chased by Prozac, so I left the cosmo on the radiator and stuck to the soft stuff. Usually I can feel a drink about 3/4ths the way through, but not tonight Celexa must have that whiskey-dick way of prolonging sobriety by making your everyday existence somewhat drunk. There is something impenetrable about the drug, that’s for sure, like a space-age polymeric sheath that is translucent yet virtually puncture-proof. A clear condom, perhaps, which is a metaphor that might be too close to home.

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