From time to time I pay tribute to my Irish nature, get savagely drunk. Last night was such an instance. It's a kind of ritual for me, as I awake with a few blurry memories of how I got home -- hazy end-of-night at the Palace, a fall off my bike in the slush, quesadilla -- clean myself up and face the world. Its related to that feeling that makes me want to take crazy wild mind-bending drugs, that witch-doctor feeling. It's not the same ritual, but it serves a similar end.

I enjoy a good hangover. I don't enjoy the headache, but the overall feeling brings a kind of clarity to my existence. It feels good, getting distilled, getting slowed down and opened up. Not every drunk produces this feeling, not by a long shot, and this is far from the only reason I drink, but it's one of the better ones I can think of.

Eugene McCarthy and Richard Pryor died, so the air last night must have been thick with spirits. Annual holiday party at A-Stock and Laura's. Good times, great party, fantastic spread. I committed a faux pas with my joint -- I sort of thought that might be pushing it -- but we worked it out. I got to meet S-Stock's fiance, who I liked (and who I liked liking since I always liked Sarah). Julia gave me this awesome shirt. On the front it says "One Wild And Crazy Guy" in kind of tacky glitter lettering, maybe iron-on. On the back is screen-printed "Coach Koenig." Found it that way at Bacons, she did. People seem good overall. The friends are happy.

The distilation, the clarity, the end of the year, the holidays. Lots to write, potentially. My attention flickers. Great ambitions; great revelations slither over the top of my brain and then dip back down. Yeah. I think the first thing that needs doing is getting myself some way to carry my tunes around. I feel like walking and listening, letting the muses pool.