Thursday, January 1, 2004

First off, gentle reader, I’d like to bring in the New Year with a fantastic excuse crafted by co-worker Andrew. Readers toiling under the cruel whiplash of higher education will appreciate this even more.

Professor: “Why is your paper late?“

“Well, Professor, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

“Yes?“

“The good news is my paper’s 128 pages long.”

“And the bad news?“

“The bad news is that the last 125 pages are all letter A’s.”

Brilliant, don’t you think? Equally brilliant was yesterday’s New Year’s outing, wherein six of us hauled ass to the downtown Mariott for some partying. The brouhaha, hosted by–gasp–UR magazine and some other too-hip-for-words patron, lasted well into the early morning. Perhaps I’m too pedestrian, but do these parties always include trash-lined dance floors, bathrooms filled with misguided human waste and fornication, and a flashing contingent of police cars and ambulances?

Understand, however, that these hitches only detracted somewhat from the overall experience. The dance floor was a verifiably sweaty cauldron of invention and insight. The Ticket Booth Dance, the Cell Phone Waltz, and the Middle Finger Fandango–these three were Secondhand exclusives, the last of which was born from unwittingly participating in a few drunken couples’ feverish grinding.

Did I have fun? You bet. Will you ever see the Cell Phone Waltz? Don’t count on it.