Friday morning when I woke up my roommate said to me

'...Did you hear anything weird last night?'
'No... why?'
'...because I think I may have poured a beer into my laptop.'

but
that does not compare
to what happened Friday night.

I started the evening by preloading in a coworker's hotel room and managed to empty a flask of Crown Royal+Yukon Jack. Then we went in a large group to an art gallery where we were given tickets for drinks. We were supposed to get two; somehow I ended up with four. It turns out that I'm the only person in the company who drinks whiskey; normally this would mean that I would be the only person to order whiskey, but such was not the case. I ended up drinking three very large glasses of whiskey on the rocks -one bourbon, one scotch, and the Crown I had ordered for myself.

Meanwhile - there is a exhibitor who has been trying unsuccessfully for a very long time to get placement in our paper. I don't know why people would read her advice column, since I couldn't stand talking to her for five minutes. At any rate, she gloms onto people - anybody, whether they're in editorial or not - especially those who work for papers she's not in. I see she's roped someone else in and I decide to spring into action. I go up to these people and say to this other woman the first thing that comes to mind, which is, inexplicably:

'Hey - your boots fucking rock!'

To my credit, they were cool boots, but what kind of degenerate just walks up to someone and compliments their boots? We talk about boots for about thirty seconds and this lady just vanishes. I'm thinking yeah, I'm a good person.

Except
i'm left
with the advice goddess.

So I'm like, hey look - that's great - but I've got to go ... refill ... my ... canapes. And I disappear into the crowd, except I can't find anybody from my company. I end up chatting with the art director of New York magazine instead. Some guy who claims to have partied with Paul Fallon in Moscow shows up and says hey, there's a party up on the 19th floor later tonight.

Eventually my people start showing up again, but it's getting late, the place is emptying out, the bar is closing, and I've still got three tickets. Make that five, after everyone's given me their leftovers. I go to the bartender, hey, what can I get for five tickets? He goes, um ... And I go, here's an empty flask. [I know, it's a long shot.] And he goes - well, what do you like? I figure, shoot for the stars, right? and I go- You got any Crown? He takes the tickets and fills the flask, all the while getting the hairy eyeball from the other bartender, and I leave with a $10 tip.

By this time, the shuttles to the hotel were no longer running, so we hire a cab. Cabbie says: where do you want to go? [In retrospect, it was a reasonable question to ask.] And we say: I dunno. And he says, I gotta take you somewhere. And we say: We're not from around here, really - we just want to go out. And he says: well, ok, where do you want to go? And I say, well, where do you hang out?

So he drops us off at the hotel, which is about two blocks from the art gallery. My one coworker [unbeknownst to the rest of us] gives him a $20 for our $3.50 fare and says keep the change. I tip him $2, and my other coworker says, I'd like to tip you but I've only got a $20. He says: [heh] I've only got eight bucks. She says: [heh] well have a good day then.

We end up at a bar near the hotel, but it's not really my scene, and my one coworker and I just kind of hang out outside and shoot the shit. Coincidentally, this is when I finish the second flask of whiskey. Eventually everyone reconvenes and we hit the streets to get back to the hotel. Except it's Juneteenth and the streets are swarming with people. Some dude goes 'Yo! Jesus!' [OK, I need a haircut.]

We finally get back to the hotel, and up to the 19th floor, and there's nothing.

except

a life-sized cardboard cutout of a 1950s-era housewife.

Mooch'd!

We take my new date to another party on the patio with a crappy 80s nostalgia band where I run into trouble with the locals. Hey! she says, what are you doing with her? I'm like: we're partying. And she's like, you can't party with her, she's cardboard! That's wrong! And I'm like, if love is wrong I don't want to be right. And she's all: that's not natural! And I'm like: I'm from New York, anything goes. She threatened to call (e:dragonlady7) . I said, don't worry about her, she's down.

The party ends. I drop off my cardboard date at the hotel room and two of my coworkers drunkenly decide to swim the [rather stagnant and nasty] Arkansas River, which runs by the hotel. [A video of this is available.] They claim to be refreshed, but the rest of us think that maybe they don't smell quite right. A bottle of vadko is passed. Someone says, why does this stuff taste like crayons? Someone else says, well, it's Fleischmann's. [Later, he says: crayons? I don't know about crayons, but that flask was filled with irish cream for about a year ... maybe I should have washed it out better.]

It was getting very late, so we called it a night.

The next day, at the Bill Clinton keynote lunch, somebody who looked very familiar sat down at our table. I'm trying not to make eye contact, but she says, 'hey, I saw you yesterday-' and I said, 'ehm, I didn't embarrass myself, did I?' and she said 'no, at the website critique...' I said, 'phew - after the critique I had a fair amount of booze and did some regrettable things...' She says, 'oh, yeah, you had the cardboard date. How did that turn out?'

- Z

So the Park Lane is slated for closure and likely demolition next year. There is understandably some hubbub regarding the new development, and the latest person to register his displeasure at the closing is Peter Gust, former head chef of the Park Lane.

In an effort to keep the restaurant open, Mr. Gust has taken to unlocking the front door after everyone else has left and often remains in the dining room after hours. Mr. Gust, who died about fifteen years ago, has earned the nickname 'Peter Ghost,' and his presence has been independently corroborated by several employees.

- Z

Went to a reception at the William J Clinton Presidential Library. It's not exactly the kind of place I would travel to, but there's some pretty interesting stuff in there, including a replica of the Clinton oval office [sans Ms Lewinsky] and a replica of the cabinet meeting room. There was one very bizarre exhibit of Billy Clinton's childhood heroes [cowboys- this is Arkansas after all] that one of my coworkers believes is space filler until Hillary R Clinton has something to put in there too. Hmmm.

At the reception, there was free booze and fancy food, and, nestled in among the banquet of stuffed mushrooms and pork tenderloins and european cheeses-- fried chicken strips. Nice. There was also a balcony outside the reception room; the door said 'smoking permitted - but no inhaling.'*

One of my coworkers brought party favors, and all of us are now armed with parachuting army guys. We are trying to decide whether it would be more fun to drop them from the balcony of the presidential library, or the 18th floor of the hotel atrium during the procession of the ducks.

- Z

_______________

• I spent all last night working on that one.

Yes: this is the Peabody Little Rock. Kind of insane with the ducks, but all in all a nice place.

This is the 29th Annual Convention of the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies - the place is swarming with marxist hippie rags [that is to say: good people.] Keynote speakers this year are Gen Wesley K Clark (Ret) and Pres William J Clinton. There is going to be an enormous reception at his place tonight [that is to say: the Clinton Library] followed by all-you-can-drink booze at the office of the Arkansas Times [windows say: 'AAN UNITE TO IMPEACH'].

If you were wondering what marxist hippie rags have to talk about, here's a sampling of the classes I'm attending: 'Where Journalism Meets the Cell Phone: An Introduction to Mobile Content,' 'How Blogs Changed My Paper,' and 'Free Online Classifieds: Do They Work?'

Just listened to some embarassing stories about Old Times from the classified director, chowed down an enormous muffuletta and a couple homebrews at some joint down the street, and passed out for an hour. I feel refreshed.

- Z

_______________

• New journal music is Tony Joe White: 'They Caught the Devil and Put Him in Jail in Eudora, Arkansas' gather:0393049001150405167

So they sent me to Little Rock for a conference. Sitting in the room, biting off a little something something from the hotel's wifi network.

My itinerary said our flight was supposed to leave at 6:30am - v. early. Set the alarm for 4:30am, got to bed early. A panicked phone call arrived at 1am from the publisher's assistant: the flight is supposed to leave at 6am, not 6:30am. After we'd all assembled at the airport we just kind of looked around and said: it's going to be a long day.

When we arrived at the hotel, they were just starting the Procession of the Ducks. Let me say this slowly: the hotel has ducks who live in a $90000 penthouse suite. Every day at 11am, the ducks wake up from their little nappy, take a ride down the elevator, and walk down a red carpet to the hotel's fountain. There is also an announcer and JP Sousa is also involved. Running through my head: 'How much less would my room have cost if I didn't have to foot the bill for these ducks?'

They were fat and fast, too - tasty, I bet.

Checked in and got my goody bag. It contained [among other things] a local brew which I am eager to try. However: no fridge. Dddaaammmnnn iiittt!!!

- Z