I struggled with a bad case of exhaustion last night, because I had forgotten to take some of my nighttime meds the evening before. (Yes: my pill case rivals that of your average recently released psychiatric inpatient, NTTAWWT.)

But despite it all, I went down to the hotel bar and joined Rusty, Ace, the Goldsteins, Philip Klein (to whom I was rude last winter—and I still haven't apologized, because I'm hoping he'll just forget) Stacy McCain, and our benefactor at YAF (the Media Wrangler Who Can Handle Bloggers) for one last drink.

And it was all good. Even Rusty decided to come down to the bar for one more, although he was getting up very, very early to get on his plane the next day, and fly to . . . wherever it is that Rusty lives. I've always assumed, myself, that it's in Area 54.

It was kind of like being at Count Linguist's house after a party on a Saturday night. You've got a crowd of ridiculously smart people who are all exhausted and/or impaired by caffeine/alcohol/THC/overstimulation of their tender wittle brains, and the definition of "funny" changes accordingly. On Saturday night Mrs. Goldstein and I lounged on a loveseat while the guys threw out lines, seeing if we might laugh. I always did, because I could see that some of 'em were in "comedic brute force" mode, and the earlier we laughed, the better it would go for us.

I've been sworn to secrecy, but I can divulge that many of those present had somewhat. . . um . . . mixed emotions about Andrew Sullivan.

The subject of torture came up, and I opined that my having to wait more than 10 minutes for a second bloody Mary was a coercive questioning technique that should be banned internationally. So Goldstein came back with more tomatoey, vodka-infused goodness.

You heard it here first! This is hard-hitting news, boys and girls!—with a few notable exceptions, bloggers like the drinkey.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:03 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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