I have a friend who’s a former DJ. A nice bloke from the UK. He invited the gang over to a club in downtown to spin up some classic house music, a sort of “20 years of house music celebration”. I was skeptical, if you knew Disco you would be too. He’s been talking about putting this little evening together for over a year so I was expecting some dramatic cancellation at the last minute.
Well, all his talk finally came to fruition last night and it was quite fun. Although, poor old sot, the turntables were placed at an awkward angle and were hooked into through a laptop. Disco is old school, so he wasn’t quite sure what to bloody do with the odd arrangement or how to use a laptop in mixing. Nonetheless, he did a lovely 30 minute set before chucking it in and joining us 5 dancers on the floor. You didn’t really think there would be more than 5 people in Wilmywood that would enjoy dancing to house music did you? Well, there aren’t.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself immensely and even imbibed a few foreign beers to blow off some steam. Still more good news–it’s house music night each Thursday at this den of quasi ill-repute. Wow! House music comes to Wilmywood! Now there is almost no reason for me to leave. If I could just get some trance and cybergoth going I would be perfectly pleased.
Also, I had a nice chit chat with the Emperor, an acquaintance of Disco’s and Bathrobe, my former roomie. I even gave the Emperor a ride home. Nice man, nice chat and who knows? Maybe a guy-pal in the future. I definitely need an action movie partner since none of my curent gal pals dig that sort of thing.
Unfortunately, I woke up today with the smartings of a minor hangover. Surprising since I had only 4 beers. I believe the distress was caused more by dancing my arse off in a sweltering club, where the only relief was the patio (80 degrees at midnight with 100% humidity), than the beer. But nevertheless, it was dehydration. Sure, I could have drank more water less beer, but really, what fun is that? So a few aspirins and a large yellow Gatorade later, the physical ailments are all but solved.
But the lingering metaphysical affects are more difficult to deal with. Frankly, I’ve not wanted to do a bloody thing but lay on the couch and smoke cigarettes while Chopin’s Nocturnes play continiously on the iPod. Funny I would want to do that since I don’t smoke anymore. But I do miss the ritual of it. I used to roll my own. You see? It’s just that sort of a mood.
What’s this funk all about? I had to consult someone more skilled in this department. I’ve seemed to forgotten all my boozehound lore on how to deal with the after-effects of a evening of intemperance. Of course, I turn to Kingsley Amis. The one of the world’s foremost drinking experts, a man of letters when it comes to spirits, so to speak. And a darn funny writer too.
When that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future begins to steal over you, start telling yourself that what you have is a hangover. You are not sickening for anything, you have not suffered a minor brain lesion, you are not all that bad at your job, your family and friends are not leagued in a conspiracy of barely maintained silence about what a shit you are, you have not come at last to see life as it really is, and there is no use crying over spilt milk.
Thank heavens that explains it. I was beginning to worry. 
