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.