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As We Stumble Along

The car is coming at 4:30 in the morning to take me to the airport. Not only is that obscene, it's about 4.25 hours from now. In the good old days, I'd just stay up. Oh how the mighty have grown old and tired.

And oh how the clientelle at Barracuda has grown young and nubile.

What an amazing long weekend. I saw the best theater. I laughed until I hyperventilated. I got the most fetch ass licker underpants ever. I had unexpected drinks on the "hurry it's lovely up here" roof deck in Brooklyn. I went to Princeton. I found the most comfortable sofa bed in Queens got blown very gently (by the wind, thank you) while I slept. I saw brave cabaret. I didn't have to have my stomach pumped, not even once. I learned that Anna-Nicole was pregnant by some guy. The list goes on and on.

All in, it's been a rousing success. Maybe I'll type up some details in the sky tomorrow.

I have a new job in London when I get back. I'm starting a campaign to bring "The Drowsy Chaperone" over. And I want to be the man in the chair.

But right now, I'm having a final cocktail (who puts an olive in a gimlet?) with my most gracious host, and I believe it will make me ... (wait for it) ... drowsy.