It may seem a cop-out, but real life (namely, this weekend’s auditions) has us really busy. Expect little today and probably nothing much here until Monday.

— You are not doing enough.
— Nonsense, mofo.
— No, you are feeling the appropriate sensations.
— Of age?
— More than that, padre, but that’s part of the package.
— Yes, the twenties are a waning sun soon to depart into the ocean.
— It gets better. And so do your metaphors.
— Easier?
— No, but better. You’re going to be laughing your ass off pretty soon over this internal monologue. A few years from now. Just as your friends have been saying. Your petty musings on owning property or having a better day job. Who the hell do you think you are? You’re doing a damn good job, kiddo. You know yourself now better than most your age.
— I got carded for beer the other night.
— Only because you shaved.
— Yeah, good point.
— Now if you can just get through the next few weeks, it will be as if nothing happened.
— Just another day?
— Yeah. And what they don’t tell you is that because you make decisions on a daily basis to get to the exact place you want to be, you’re one sexy motherfucker. Robert Mitchum badass, sexy.
— These are good things.
— Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you. But you keep moping on about thumbing a lift to Minneapolis in the middle of the workweek or doing something rash. I’m not suggesting you settle down, but if you keep it up, kid, it will work out.
— But thirty? I should be someplace better.
— Listen, you ambitious sod, the economy sucks, but you’re setting things up anyway. Just deal with it.
— Okay. But can we chat when something else comes up?
— Here he goes again. Okay, but no more after the day of transmutation.
— Deal.

Buy Hitch a Drink. Not since Sinclair Lewis has a writer been so actively encouraged to stay drunk. (via LNR Books Diary)

About Last Night is one year old. We’d have more to say, but then we’d have to unveil the latest draft of the Teachout roast we’ve been working on for six months, which only Sarah’s had the good fortune to read. (Rest assured the roast, which has only recently been cut down to eight hours, isn’t ready anyway. It goes far beyond Terry’s well-publicized endowment and includes a gripping narrative of OGIC’s early days in Lisbon as a flamenco dancer, much of which has yet to be confirmed by our well-paid fact-checking department.) But a happy year nonetheless to Terry and OGIC, hopefully with more to come.