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I think aftermath writeups are the dying breaths of
conversation. To some they are a commemorative distillation, a
haphazard blend of neurotoxins and essential oils, meant as a
hangover cure, maybe. Or maybe somnolalia: our collective murmur as
we wash ourselves to sleep, imagining ourselves cradled, as in the
lower quarters of a ship sailing calm seas.
I had never
been to a Horace Phair. In fact I couldn't remember the name of the
party, even after buying my plane tickets, even after arriving in
Portland, even after getting to the house and being repeatedly
scolded for Houser Affair and More to Spare and Hoedown to End
The Millenium and Beach Party Vietnam.
It was a dense and impenetrable party.
First,
and I know this is on everyone's mind: the Canadians are
indistinguishable from anyone else. And as of this writing, at least
four of them have cross-bred with Americans, diluting both nations'
traditions. Americans sing shantys, and Canadians sing
logging songs. As they bellowed together, the waters flowed and much
timber was felled.
I don't feel I need to thank anyone.
I am back in New York and I am exhausted. I fell in love with and in
Portland earlier this year, so I'm accustomed to the exhaustion, the
wet lungs, and really this cannot be stressed enough, the regret. It
happens every time. I regret going and I regret leaving. Later, I regret that I cannot recall what I feel so badly about.
The
rest of the party is indescribable, but there is one fact you need to
know. icicle, enth, conform, Ouroboros and I found Stephen
Malkmus's house, and James Mercer's house, and we urinated on them
both. All five of us urinated on two houses, and the houses are one
block away from each other. After we did that, we peed on the street.
This should give you an idea of how much alcohol we'd been drinking.
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