more triumphant than his ft lowell park knuckleball memorial

Krakatoa returns. Last night, as we went from No Anchovies to Plush to Brooklyn, krakatoa kept a large enough entourage that we basically took over every place we went. He is irreplaceable.

Around 9:30 pm, the hater philosophizes: I'm wondering where this evening is going... I gave him an exceedingly verbose reply (mostly because I was already drunk... I blame the Grand Cru at Local Dough), but I basically said let's plan to have fun and we will. Soon after, krakatoa bought us a round of irish car bombs. Even though he was the guest of honor, we didn't argue with his charity, since while we're still students, he now works for the man. Fun commenced. At one point g-spotter and I decided to make nonstop look impressive, while he was talking to a stranger. In order to appear non-threatening, we decided to pretend that we were gay. Then g-spotter started biting me. I'm sure it all made nonstop look exceedingly impressive. It's hard to say if this was before or after I recognized that there is no good way to answer a woman when she says, [action], you seem to hit on everybody. (For instance, how can that be? am I hitting on you now? does not work. They just counter with the idea that I hit on every woman but them. The hole grows, etc.) It is true that I talk to everybody. And sometimes I hit on g-spotter, and he bites me.

When I have a night like last night, and I fall asleep exceedingly drunk, I continue to have dreams which are basically a continuation of the evening. This sounds fun, but these dreams involve more drinking. Bad news. Even worse than the hangover are the slow recollections of drunken conversations... goddamn I'm stupid.

Next Friday: Grizzly Bear at Plush, and one spruce porter for dr goodall (the self-titled "number whore") if she comes through...

Song of the Day: Velvet Underground - White Light/White Heat