Got beat with the drunk stick. Weddings; they'll do that to ya. It was a great one. Champaigne and scotch and dancing with maids. It all gets out of hand so quickly, and then you have to make a questionable bike run to catch the last BART. The real downside was that I didn't go right home, and -- in addition to making the executive decision to stop in at the Albatross and stare mutely at the attractive bartender (weddings; they'll do that to ya) while imbibing even more demon liquor, loosing track of my bike helmet and black suit jacket and some of my dignity in the process -- somewhere along the way I crashed into something and broke my laptop screen.
That scene is missing from my memory-reel, but the forensic evidence is conclusive. Stay classy, KoneZone.
On the upside, a bike ride to Emeryville for an on-demand replacement at the Apple store is a good hangover cure. The weather cooperated with brilliance, there was a cool Sikh parade on the way, and I'll have a new headless computer to muck about with for however long it stays alive.
Still, the whole thing feels childish. Especially the bartender part. That's just un-called-for behavior.
Now is probably as good a time as any to get healthy(er) again. I mean, maybe in advance of the next wedding (a western-themed hodown in Portland, guaranteed bacchanalia) I can abandon my five or six pounds of latent beer-weight. On the other hand, who knows what kind of awful trouble I'd get into if I showed up all lithe and sexy. Still, it's always a good idea to revive Operation Get Real Hot. Decisions, decisions.
