When I was One, I had just begun.
When I was Two, I was nearly new.
When I was Three I was hardly me.
When I was Four, I was not much more.
When I was Five, I was just alive.
But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

TO: Everythingians
SUBJ: re: perhaps you've drunk my awesome home?

Now we are six. Our ongoing plan for the (re)colonization of this already-inhabited place are proceeding. The fruits of our early years are themselves sprouted and growing.

Horace Phair is a Thanksgiving and Guy Fawkes Day to your average noder. Sometimes there are 'splosions, too.

To all of you who were here that lounged on our porch, conversed in our livingroom, boozed in our kitchen, sang in our my basement, snogged in our rafters, I miss you, damn you for being so damn amazing, do not be surprised if I knock on your door tomorrow. You have been infected subtly. You will be called to your new home.

All of us have had quite enough of the aftermath laundry-list of everythingians we briefly met. But there are a number of people whom we'd hope to see at Horace Phair Seven. In no particular order, these include: ailie, akatchoom, aphexious, Wally Kowalski, Lerch, jderrida, geminica, jessicapierce, freyley, mittens of doom, Mitzi, JD-elusive, joyquality, Karl the Medievalist, karma debt, lara68, Gesine, Alec Outside, frankdeluxe, ccunning, doyle, Dresden Codak, ModernAngel, Ali Oops, Altusmens, brassmule, siouxsie, slambulance, Walter, wertperch, Yurei, MacDonaldLarry, bus ridin' fool, dTaylorSingletary, anonamyst, Audie McCall, JerboaKolinowski, jongleur, Lost and Found, mara, matteo, enth, Ereneta, factgirl, Clout Philip Tolstoy the Last, Yossarian, conform, Jeane, Jeeves, sarchanamundi, Johann Excellent, Selene Nyx, pukesick, Vicar in a Tutu, vruba, electric mollusk, renderer, ULTRA MOTHER RUSSIA, Brain, NotFabio, flamingweasel, Chihuahua Grub, cipher, anthropod, ClockworkGrue, conventional oven, cowofdoom, Crux, glowingfish, mordel, p_i, the Mighty Quizro, graceness, grundoon, Oven Mitts, haze, tiefling, bjuarez, Unless, ideath, igloowhite, jaubert s. moniker, metacognizant, hellajoey, icicle, misuba, Owen, prole, qousqous, RevPhil, jes5199, Max, perdedor Mr.O, roninspoon, Mykle, nait, Ouroboros, sparkleface, tornadogrrl, Sick Boy, aphexious, WickerNipple, don red, srkorn, steev, panamaus, saralinn, Panurge, Quentin Xavier Zamfir, discofever, Siobhan, Aaditya Rangan, the real jeff bridges, Tina Weymouth, Tina Fey, Tina Brown, Henry Kissinger.

This weekend I traveled to Portland left my bedroom and met five dozen of the most intelligent and beautiful and wonderful and friendly and sweet people I've ever encountered in my life discovered my house was overrun with people from the Internet, some of them very attractive.

When I first showed up poured my first cocktail of the day, things were a little awkward, largely because of assertions the guests were then making about my behavior the previous evening. This experience was quite disorienting: not only had I zero memory of the things I had allegedly said and done, I was fairly certain I had never seen most of these guests in my entire life. Sadly, I was quickly proven wrong by the documentation-obsessed party contingent, who provided still digital photos, video and audio recordings to verify their assertions.

While it is true that I'm so happy I wasted my entire collegiate existence staring at this site, or I never would have met you lovely fuckers a large percentage of the visitors to my house this weekend don't use this website anymore or have never even heard of it, in the interest of perpetuating in the exact kind of dirty-laundry-airing and flamewarring I claim to eschew in favor of discretion and tact noding for the ages, I thought I would use this forum to apologize for absolutely all of my misdeeds this weekend (rather, to apologize for the ones I know about).

To Ouroboros: I am sorry about your pants. Really, really sorry. I am also sorry you didn't realize that if you made me six bloody Marys and didn't supplement them with actual breakfast, at least one of them would end up on your Dockers. I'm also sorry you have such bad taste in pants that I didn't know when to say when, and because of my poor judgment, ended up setting your laundry on fire and waxed my car with your wedding dress. To say I owe you a new wardrobe is an understatement. Call me and we'll do Lloyd Center sometime.

To conform: You are a real class act, and I have every intention of replacing your first edition of Ulysses with a new copy that I haven't urinated on.

To ideath: It seems like I've met you a few times before, so I really have no explanation for the fact that I kept forgetting your name and accusing you of being ungenerous with your "stash" being a cockblock between myself and the groom that guy Horace.

To enth: I'm sorry I gave you rickets. I'm sorry I gave you those bogus drugs that sent you to the hospital, although the phosphates bubbling out of your nose were kind of funny actually. I'm sorry about kicking your cat in the stomach, even though she had it coming. I'm sorry about all the hair in the bath tub, even though it wasn't your bath tub. I'm sorry about that time I accused you of stealing all my meds and replacing them with Aqua Net. I'm sorry I spilled cheese sauce on you and then didn't share the nachos. I'm also sorry I cut your arm off. I thought it was really funny, but I guess it was wrong, because only one of the ER nurses thought it was funny too. I'm also sorry I called you Stumpy after that. I'm just sorry.

To panamaus: I'm really, really sorry I made you drink a ten-gallon bucket of gravy spiked with vodka. You were really a grown man and it's hardly my job to babysitepolite and hesitant about the whole thing, and I'm sure seriously, 10 gallons, what the fuckyou wouldn't have done it if I hadn't egged you on, especially since, as we found out later, you're allergic to gravy. Sorry about the swollen face, hands and gentials mangos. Feel free to put me in the hospital any time.

To Walter and QXZ: I'm sorry that no one invited you and you couldn't stop talking about stupid shit and groping my friends I had so much trouble telling you two apart. I'm also sorry I kept calling you gay especially since you totally are.

To brassmule: I'm sorry about the confusion.

To Quizro: This is what happens when you fuck a stranger in the assI didn't know that was your car. I'll replace the windows as soon as I get my next pay check, I swear.

To Roninspoon: I actually feel I have very little to apologize for here, as your behavior was even more appalling, abhorrent and dangerous than mine, not to mention that I had to act as a human shield between you and all the ephebes at the party. You also owe me a case of pork and beans, you sick fuck. It was really nice meeting you.

To igloowhite: You left your hat here.


I'm reasonably certain that I may have unintentionally offended, injured or damaged the property of a number of people whose names currently escape me. To you folks, I apologize both for forgetting your names and for my behavior. If you have anything to report, please /msg me and I will do my best to rectify the situation. Please contact me also if you know the names of any of the people I had sex with (I also apologize for the volume, and the fact that most of these encounters occurred in the living room while people were trying to read quietly), or if you know the name of the guy I threw in the compost. The thing I feel truly bad about is that, with the notable exception of a bunch of truly crazy motherfuckers and crashing bores, many of whom exist simultaneously in the same person by and large, you are a terrific bunch of individuals, with whom I sincerely look forward to more groping and puking good times next year. If I'm not invited, I'll understand, but don't worry -- I'll show up anyway.

I'm a smart guy. I'm good at memorizing lots of little things. But then sometimes I forget big ones.

Like, sometimes I'll be rattling off a movie quote, and then turn to one of my friends and go, "Did you see that one?" And they give me a look like I'm remedial and they go, "I saw that WITH YOU."

Oh. Right. Sorry.

So I got this email that I was invited to this wedding. On the other side of the country. Well, that's the sort of thing I tend to dig, socially. I've been known to sip wine on the beach in California, to swallow bourbon on a rooftop in Chicago, to dance at a castle deep in the woods of North Carolina. I enjoy meeting people. They seem, afterward, to enjoy having met me. So why not?

Then the next day I reread the ewedding.com post a little more thoroughly, while I was sober. And I realized no one was getting married at all. It was, rather, a fake symbolic wedding. So, sort of a stunt pulled by faux-rebellious types who think they're above the concept of marriage. Which I found a little creepy. But I had already bought the plane tickets.

Upon arriving in Portlandia, I was somewhat put off by its bizarre failure to be a real place. I live in New York City, which means that buildings go up, and people who have real jobs wear suits. A bunch of hoodied slackers shouldn't be able to label themselves a cultural hub just because their suburb has some nearby bridges they can bike over. But whatever, dude! Take another hit off your bong smoke! You'll be important someday!

However, when I got to the house where I'd be crashing, for some reason, I got a warm welcome. The inhabitants were pretty strange - I couldn't even be sure they were friends, because they seemed to be from four different social circles with divergent dress codes. One was an anarchist hippie who kept stuffing food down my throat and then making me wash her dishes, because my presumptions were too gendered. One was a fedora-and-slacks-clad hipster who kept wanting me to sing along with him, like this was Snazzy Camp or something. One was a stylish, clean-cut guy who kept relentlessly "inventing" new cocktails because he was bored with his own homebrew, and the last was a skinny teenage girl in a frilly dress, like a wannabe librarian, who kept contradicting every statement I made during the few occasions she was capable of standing.

But deep down, they were good kids. And all their friends, who were also, each and every one, distinctively outlandish in that passive-aggressive attention-seeking way, seemed like somewhat decent folks too. And they made a lot of jokes and references which I didn't get, but I would just, you know, smile and nod, and have a good time anyway, even when a mountain man began telling a tale of an immortal lightbulb who was hidden in a German's colon. Even when a bunch of Canadians started playing this weird accordion-washtub roots music in the basement. (They seem like a very polite, hirsute people, and I hope they can one day afford electricity.) Even when everybody took their goddamn pants off.

Many hours and many, many drinks later, as I pivoted on the porch, waving goodbye, a hand-lettered sign in the window caught my eye. It said simply, "HEAD WEST!"

And I thought, Oh wow. Deja vu.

And then I realized, I had been to this exact same party, in the exact same city, with these exact same people, five fucking years before.

You'd think I would have remembered their names. You'd think I would have known all the in-jokes. You'd think I would have been back there before now.

So, yeah. Sorry about that.

From: Igloowhite
Spoon, somehow cant find you
inside. Want to walk to tin
shed, before it gets too late
in the morning?
8:25am 10/7/07

When a text message like that wakes you up, one of the first things you should be able to do is either confirm or deny your geographical location. Quite swiftly I realized I was not in a position to guarantee this.

What the fuck? Where was I?

I mean, it was a house; clearly it was a house, but it was not the one I had spent the preceding portion of the weekend in. It was not the house I had expected to wake up in. It was... familiar? The last thing I remember was looking at my watch, in this room, and realizing it was 5:30, in the morning. Christ, I'd only been asleep for three hours, practically mirroring the lack of sleep from the night before. And oh, oh my god, was I hungry. When had I eaten last?

In a rush it all came back.

Bourbon. Bourbon. Beer. Smoked lamb ribs. Cohiba. Beer. The Golden Grates. Typographic selection and apparent substitution of f for s in 18th century documents. Bourbon. Beer. Pants off. Yoga demonstration. Meatball. Beer. Tequila. Someone's in my bed. Dodge Magnum. Avril Lavigne. Avril Lavigne. Repetitive percussive instrumental. 05:30. Bed. Text message.

AHA! Now I knew where I was. Unfortunately, where I was, was the other side of town. A quick check on google maps had verified that I was about 3.5 miles from the Tin Shed, and the breakfast I so dearly craved.

Some people are indecisive, and require a lot of contemplation prior to action. Some people are planners, and require a lot of details before action. I can see the benefit in both of those approaches, but at heart, I'm an improviser. One part MacGyver, one part A-Team, and three parts sexy determination, I operate best on the go. I didn't have my contacts in, I hadn't eaten in fourteen hours, I had only a marginal idea of where I was in relation to where I wanted to go, I had no water and was pretty dehydrated, and I was reasonably certain I was still a little drunk. On the plus side, I had an internet enabled phone, pants, and a destination.

Pants on, I made the bed (never be a poor guest) and set off. My will to make it to breakfast was all that kept me ambulatory. When I passed a bread factory, I began to salivate like a dog to a bell, and I nearly lost that will to continue. Fortunately, as I was nearing the limits of ambulation due to the unsettling problems of hunger, sleep deprivation and hallucination, I was able to flag down a taxi.

Had it not been for the serendipitous arrival of that taxi, I might still be wandering the streets of Portland in a glycemic deficient fugue, sustained only by the memories of my good friends and the tormenting aroma of fresh baked bread.

I'd like to tell you that everything went smoothly after that, but it would be a lie. A glorious and beautiful lie, but a lie nonetheless. There is no further tragedy in this story, only herculean inefficiency coupled with gut wrenching hunger and a few hours of charming complaining. There is a point though, although I shudder to go so far as to call it a moral.

When you find yourself someplace unexpected, perhaps even undesired, in the company of strangers and out of your element, you have a choice to make. You can piss and moan about the consequences of your actions and refuse to accept responsibility; or, you can take charge of your life and accept that you have some fault, move past it, and create success. It's your call.

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