Last night was the Blue Train staff party. It was off the hook (as my Indian friend Ashok Basawapatna would say). Open bar from 9p to 3a (ie limitless Guiness - many pints and pots were emptied), DJ spinning good enuf music once you’re feelin’ good, and many many finger foods (pizzas, sushi, rice paper rolls). Then, when the bar closed, Tim called for an afterparty at his house in Collingwood (fortunately enuf it was on my way home). So we all migrated there. Well, if the pub-side part was off the hook, then the afterparty was on the hook (so that it could swiftly be taken back off again, but in a much more caustic and fervent manner). More drinking and more DJing (the two guys that lived there were much better than the pub pleb - they actually used vinyl). All said and done, I rode home on my bike after sunrise (having not slept or passed out).
I read a little poem on the wall at the party:
I hate poety.
I really hate its guts.
If I see it here again,
I’ll kick it in the nuts.
mmmMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmm self-contained irony.
I spent today just reading. Finished Atomised, and will start in on Bernard’s Douglas Adams collection. Now, Elle has company over (Steve who is driving her to Comfest), and they’re making a grand dinner for us all.
Happy Festivus!