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IT'S UP TO ME NOW, TURN ON THE BRIGHT LIGHTS. (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE DON'T)

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We're back in full effect after a devastating swing through New York. The statistical line: 2 days, 7.5 hours of sleep, and one unfortunate visit to the Cherry Tavern where a night of carefully coordinated drinking became one pain-fraught down payment on a hangover the likes of which we haven't seen since The Infamous Gold Schlager Incident of 1995. Thanks, East Village!

Muchas Gracias to all the people who extended invitations--between the office work and a bloggy post-work meeting, there wasn't time to do much besides flag a cab back to the hotel and spend fifteen minutes trying the room keys on our floor until one worked. (Next time, we'll just write the room number on our legs and arms in waterproof marker like we're a triathlete so people will know where to drop our prone, unconscious body.)

Special thanks to Warren for the burgers and BJ Strykker for the drink coaching. We'll be over here pounding Ibuprofen and weeping softly.


Hangover, day 2. We blame the Jews.