Although some agua was imbibed last night to soften the blow (thus hindering credence of this conclusion), here is the final verdict on the Hangman’s Blood: As Burgess reported, there is no hangover to speak of. Despite a good deal of champagne, several whiskey and cokes, a nutty rum and whisky concoction invented on the fly, a few Guinnesses and, of course, the HB. The HB then is recommended for people who have a fully stocked bar, aren’t terrified of a cocktail with a noxious taste, and greatly desire to have alcohol affect their head, arms and various portions of the upper torso with celerity.

Burgess was quite wrong, however, to impute a “metaphysical elation.” The results were almost immediately corporeal, but not extra or supernatural in any real sense. The metaphysical failings here are likely my own, since I am certainly not as smart as Burgess, limited only to casual philosophizing, and I don’t really associate drinking with any rise of the intellectual bar.

As it so happens, Pinky’s Paperhaus did participate in last night’s festivities and Mr. B is to be commended for his cartoons and personal riffing. I cannot imagine the hangunder poor Jeff will have from all that coffee, but I do hope he got some solid sleep. Heaven help poor Wholesale Pants Warehouse, who not only went off the deep end but lost track of his wedding ring in the process. This is the kind of typing that some of us were striving for, but somehow failed to achieve. And leave it to Abroad Abroad to post drunken letters to Dave Eggers, among other things.

Okay, that’s enough. I have no desire to drink any more alcohol. See you all next post in the sober and literary.

Is this crack something to be worried about? Does it signify something? Is it reflective of the inevitable earthquake which is to come? Would you accept this crack? Or are cracks an inevitable side effect of being a renter?

I am now wearing an Incredible Hulk t-shirt. This was simply because it was the nearest tee within arm’s reach. It appears to be a bit dirty. But no matter. I am doing laundry tomorrow. Of course, after that abominable Ang Lee movie, the Hulk is the least hep comic book figure to have emblazoned across your chest. But I like the Hulk. I grew up reading the Peter David issues, the good Gray Hulk stuff, and the Hulk, I suppose, is a figure that is my guilty pleasure. Almost as guilty as the Fantastic Four. (Under duress, you will hear me saying, “It’s clobbering time!”)

Anyway, at my local cafe, I’ve become known as the laconic writer who comes in with “crazy” tee shirts and a laptop. The staff at this cafe is very nice. But they have rather strangely identified me as the man over 30 with the T-shirts (“The Brain That Wouldn’t Die,” “The Cabinet of Dr. Calligari,” the like). I have obtained some dubious neighborhood-related mystique. Why would such a man with a clearly receding hairline deign to espouse this sort of adolescence? There seems to be a silent consensus among the staff that there might be something serious going on.

But it’s really quite simple. For whatever damn reason, I feel tremendously comfortable writing while wearing a strange T-shirt espousing unfashionable cultural trappings. Where other people might roll up their sleeves, I feel the need to replace my shirt (and I am more inclined to wear dress shirts than tees) to get down to bidness.

In fact, there seems to be an odd crap tee revival of sorts amongst the hipster community. There is a rather obnoxious cafe known as Cafe Reverie up in Cole Valley. I once went in there with a Spam T-shirt, expecting to be ridiculed and otherwise demeaned with snobbish looks. But what I found instead was that the people there really dug my shirt. A friend of mine tried to explain to me that adopting these T-shirts involved a certain trailer trash chic that was currently in vogue. I had no such plan. I wore the tee because I liked it and there was some strange need to provoke yuppies who believe they are entitled to everything. But it was just the reverse.

So the moral of the story is this: a T-shirt may not be the symbol of rebellion you think it is.