It was a slaughter. By the time I got around to buying seven shots of Kessler for the table -- "smooth as silk" -- we were all coloring well outside the lines, flirting with the ladies, shouting half-bright witticisms at one another. Yes, for the Girth's 29th birthday, after a very lovely and grown-up dinner of cayenne chicken and freshly-made pesto, we got drunk.

This is an old passtime, one that brought us together as wild young men, and still serves a bonding purpose, even if the path is now more well-worn and recovery a bit more difficult. It doesn't happen that often, this dionysian fugue, this western tradition of peeling back the civilized parts of our brains. We're more self-conscious and protective; more self-judging too. We've got better things to do a lot of the time. We worry about our health. Still, the ritual persists.

Considerable vulnerability is created, both during and after. This is part and parcel with any loss of control, and it's what we hope for I think, part of the draw. Things will be admitted, attempted, words blurted, action taken. Magical events may transpire, and in the hard light of day, with luck, truth will reveal itself.

The morning finds me shaky, giddy, mumbling rationalizations and pining away over a girl I haven't seen in more than year. The hard light reveals an empty landscape; my cupboard is bare. It's a weak kind of feeling, and I don't like it.

All of this is information, and with that and some will a change is going to come. As the philosopher says, beliefs are habits of action. Mine are in need of refreshment, renewal. I've been numbed-up, stuck in a rut, far less than 100% of who I am. I've been sleeping in late and reclusing on the weekends. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

Somewhere along the way I fell out of love with my life. I stopped taking risks or reaching very far. The stars fell from my eyes, and now I feel both bored and boring, a pedestrian person in desperate need of an attitude adjustment.

Huh. This turned into kind of a bummer of a blog post. Sorry about that. It's not that hard to make your heart beat faster, but it's nigh impossible to force a new feeling.

And life's really not that bad. I aught not to whine. Superbowl was pretty great, I thought.

I suppose I'll close it out with an old good video, in honor of where this all started: