Where do you think you are? I don't know, the Library of Congress? Detroit? Beyond the sun?

The sad thing about getting "bomblasted" (copyright Rich Pasiewicz) is that, for all the fun you have at the time, you never remember it afterwards. Here is a random sampling of conversations from "the day after":

"Dude, you were sooo wasted last night!"

"Dude, I think I was so wasted last night!"

"Damn it, and I really liked that shirt."

"We have some crazy videos of you, man."

"I use alcohol to drown my sorrows and hide from my lack of self respect."

"I'm sorry, man, I'll buy you a new one."

"I woke up this morning wearing Kevin McCabe's clothes. Why?"

We had a little flat bonding last night: a rousing game of quarters, which basically involves playing a game that I am no good at, and thereby getting me wrecked. But hey, everyone had a good time, and I can't say I didn't. Also, I got a job last night--I will be working downtown at a fund of funds, which is a hedge fund, which is a way for people to invest their money. So I dodge the "uh oh no job this summer, have to deal at the playground" bullet once again.

On another note, Big Daddy was a pretty funny movie.