Tuesday, July 20, 2004

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he this day that drank Woodford with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
That day sure fucked up his condition:
And all you sods in England now abed,
Should think yourselves accurs'd, you were not here,
And hold your manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
Who supp'd with us this legendary day.
There is so much I could tell you. About how my life changed and yet remained the same. About how what I have forgotten means more to me than most of my combined accumulated memories. About confirmed expectations and confounded fears. About the mirror held and the same gazed into. About joy and tears. And most of all, about love.
And what is it that I am going to tell you? Nothing, rien, semmit, nada. Maybe I could tell you that our feat of alcohol consumption was of truly epic proportions. I could tell you but you were not there. The male of the species was not disgraced, that much I can vouchsafe. I could tell you that the hangover involved no pain but you would have no idea as to its intensity. I could tell you that at least one person would not hold his manhood cheap and that he still has the moustaches to prove it.
So what can I tell you? I can tell you that I lost my keys and that I leapt over my fence with a liquidity of which Olga Korbut would have been proud. I can tell you that we "screwed our courage to the sticking place" and returned to the scene to be blown away by one of the finest jazz sets I have ever witnessed and be astounded by the virtuosity of a ragtime band who rapped their way through 'Sweet Georgia Brown'. And I can also let slip that Roger would have loved the trombonist.
Suffice it to say that a very important person passed through my life this weekend. And everything has changed and yet everything is how it was. I am a very lucky man.

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