New Blue Shoe: Perspective Archives

May 25, 2006

Be Careful What You Wish For

Okay, so you know those health quizzes where they talk about stress factors and events contributing to heart attacks? You know: "If you started a new job, add one point. If you had a death in the family, add 3, and 2 more if it was a close relative like a parent, spouse, or child." Right. That kind. Maybe I'm only making one up (because I couldn't find it doing a half-assed Google search for something like that; perhaps typing in "heart attack stressful events death job" isn't enough), but I'm pretty sure that I've seen these, and all I know is that they suggest you limit the number of such events to as few as possible over as long a period of time. Yes, yes, you're not supposed to love, move away from home, work, get married, etc. Then you'll live forever. However, despite no longer being a teenager--and frankly, never having been one of the ones who thought he was invincible or whatever--I do fully recognize my own mortality, and rather than take another vitamin or schedule a prostate exam, I have apparently wholeheartedly embraced the Stressful Events Vortex as though it were a Sunday morning toilet bowl and I was a frat-boy who found a free case of Boone's Farm late on Saturday afternoon. I got myself married to S, who is now S Blue Shoe. Two days before the wedding I was offered a new job, doing music law work for a firm I have always wanted to work for, and then upon returning, the Missus and I packed all of our stuff (okay, our friends Torrie and K, along with some movers packed it all up), and we moved, and then I accepted the job at the end of the last week. If you add that up, that's 3 Major Life-Changing, Personal World-Shattering, Heart Attack-Inducing Events in the space of three weeks. I'll see you when I get out of the ICU next month some time.

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April 18, 2006

Ready or Not...

These days, it seems I can't ake more than about 4 steps out the door before someone--a co-worker, a store owner, the doormen, --the local lovable homeless guy--asks me, "So, are you nervous?" My mom asked me the other night--and she was hoping I'd up and ask S long before I actually did. We've got 11 days till S and I are mister-and-missus Shoe. I don't know if it's politeness, if that's just what you say when you hear or know someone's going to get married, like if someone's about to buy a home or sneezes their milk or something like that (you know, consequential), but it amazes me how many people ask that question. To me, it makes sense in the context of the old days where you courted each other before getting married. And yes, I know that that's a fanciful, sterilized vision of The Way Things Were™, but the fact is that I don't really know anyone who doesn't know their betrothed all that well. Nor, I suspect, do you. S and are among the last people who don't live together before they're married. That doesn't bother me at all, but if anything, I've got more reason to be worried. I'm not, though. It's this simple: I love her. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with her. I can't wait to celebrate it, and I sure as shooting can't wait to go on our honeymoon together and then move into our beautiful new home together. The only thing I'm worried about is whether I'll remember the wedding and reception, or if they'll shoot by like the last couple of birthdays I've had, whether all will go according to plan or if we'll find the band has gone to the other hotel. Either way, I'm not nervous. I just want to slow down time next Friday afternoon and never have it speed up so I can enjoy it all.

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February 10, 2006

Brrrrrrrr

You know, on a day like today, when it's so chilly out that everyone's wrapped in multiple layers, there's something really thrilling about getting in to the office and realizing that your zipper's been open all morning.

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December 30, 2005

Everybody Put Your Best Suit or Dress On

A couple of weeks ago, when I first started to write this thought, I had just written to a friend that for once I am in a place where I don't feel as if I'm waiting for my life to happen. I was pretty proud of it. Things weren't happening to me, I was happening to them. And although there was something to look forward to on the horizon, I felt that that was part of the life I was leading, not the one I was waiting for. You see, I was always waiting for life to begin. When I was young and moved to Dallas, I wanted a car to drive so I could actually have some control. In high school, it was college I sought. In college, it was 21. 21, it was a serious ladyfriend. Serious ladyfriend, a better one. And on and on. But the point was that at that very moment, when I was about to go to law school, when I was about to finish exams, when I was about to graduate, all the way through sometime late this fall, I was always waiting for the next thing to happen so that I could finally be living life. Woody Allen, I believe said something along the lines of life being what happens to you while you make plans. And that's what I was doing. So finally, the other day, I had this moment where I thought that I finally had it. I'm healthy, my family is well, and I am living an adult life, about to be married. Nothing wanting. Sure there's ambition, and absolutely, I don't plan to sit in this shared office or in this particular sphere of industry forever, or live in one apartment for the rest of my days, but I am happy with what I'm doing, who I know, where I'm going. And so for my new year's resolution, I promise only to continue living my life, rather than waiting for it.

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December 22, 2005

We Wish You A Merry Crash-mas

In the middle of all this strikery, I noticed yesterday what I had been waiting for for so long--the whiff of Christmas spirit on the air. The thing about New York--and this holds true even for the people who hate the city on principle--there are a couple of times of year that are simply magic in this city. One is the springtime, because when the flowers come up on Park Avenue, and everyone starts going back to Central Park for the first time, there's nothing like it. Springtime's rebirth is emphasized by all the concrete and glass, and somehow the city feels calm, as though it were taking a deep breath again. This is actually one of the main reasons S and I are getting married in late spring here. While there are others, to me, the most magical time is late evening during the second and third weeks of December, especially if a bit of snow comes down. Somehow you feel transported back to the 1950s, with people holding hands, scurrying along to some new shindig, dreaming of mere (i.e. not entirely crass) material gifts, and the city feels enveloped in an uber-familial glow. To me, the scent of Christmas trees being sold on the corners just encapsulates all of this. And last night, as I saw neighbors helping neighbors with rides to wherever-it-was, I was struck by that piney whiff. It made me happy. Ironically, the other reason why I'm remembering it is because I'm not being distracted by my computer at home, which croaked out a miserable hard-drive failure for the holidays. I'm thrust back to actual experiences, while simultaneously researching new computers, trying to figure out just what I want. It's sort of like Christmas, except I'm being Scrooge to myself, trying not to spend good money without reason.

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August 4, 2005

High-Risk Behavior

This week, I am a snot-producer. I have had one of the most enduring colds I've ever had, and I've had my share. Not content to resist strep throat from S when we were first dating, or more than her share of colds since then, somehow I found myself tripped up by a common cold in the dead of summer. They say that summer colds are the worst. I'm pretty sure they're right. But without going into great detail about the consistency (thick) or color of my mucosa (brown/green/yellow/camouflage), I will say that it's been a long trip and I'm at that stage of illness where I'm better, but I sound like I swallowed a hedgehog or porcupine, or more realistically, a bear, which clawed its way down, and is now speaking up whenever I try to utter a word. However, this post isn't to bemoan my illness or whine about working when I feel sooo low--well, not really. I'm just writing to indicate what an utter fool I am. Because in my illness, what am I doing? I'm sipping an iced coffee with skim milk--because it's summer. I'm singing my lungs out at a firm karaoke cruise--because it's fun and I want to participate. I'm sleeping in an air-conditioned room--because I can't sleep if it's warm. Mothers of the world: I know I've done wrong. Update (12:19PM): I am displeased to announce that I've gone from Tom Waits-sexy gravel/sandpaper-voice to prepubescent-teen voice. Mickey Mouse and I have more in common than ever.

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July 25, 2005

You Can't Always Get What You Want

When I was a kid, my mom said that I did things just to get the equipment. I joined sports teams that I thought would be cool and then coveted the cool gear my teammates had. I got jazzed about wearing cleats for the first time; leaving those little clumps of mud was great. So the accusation is partly true--I did like the new stuff--but at the same time, we were a pretty frugal family and we didn't just buy stuff. Even if we could, we didn't just go buy because we wanted something. It was all calculated and all based on real need. Thus, when I lost a baseball glove, I was required to make do with a 1940s handmedown. I caught endless amounts of crap from the other kids in my school for it, but aside from finding myself waist-deep in a box of lost-and-found, it was probably the single-most powerful way of reminding me to hold on to and keep track of my things. I remember making a case for joining the lacrosse team, replete with annual costs of equipment, how inexpensively I could fully and safely outfit myself, and how I would be on a small team with a large chance to play and make the gear worthwhile. I stuck with the team all four years of high school. When I wanted to get a new camera for my burgeoning photography hobby, I did the research and then ended up signing a contract with my mother that I would continue to take Latin and would achieve certain scores at Latin conventions. (Yes, you read right: Latin conventions. All over Texas.) None of this is to say that we didn't buy very nice things, but as my mother pointed out just the other day, deal-making is always desirable. There's no need (in my mind, as with hers—-she did good work) to buy something for the same price everyone else is if you can do better. All of which is to say that I've always been excited about new stuff. I used to get very excited about corporate toys my father would bring home from conferences, and I get fired up about a cool new pair of shoes. The joy may be transient, but for a day or so, I'm excited about the acquisition. now I'm getting married, and it's socially acceptable to covet all that stuff and get excited about brand-new pots and pans and everything else, and to ask for it because you think you need it. Even if you don't get exactly what you want (Canon 20D, Dyson vacuum cleaner, assorted kitchen weapons), you get a whole lot of what you need. And that's going to be fun.

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March 23, 2005

Sleeping Duty

In high school, back when I thought I could get away with sleeping only 6 hours a day on weeknights--and in reality was making most of it up by sleeping until 1, which to this day has my grandfather asking me if he woke me up on Sunday mornings at 11--I had a pretty good routine. I would get up, do the morning evacuation/ablution ritual, have breakfast with the funnies and my dad, and with a good 10 minutes before car pool/I would leave for school, I'd climb right back into bed. These days, when I need that nap more than ever, and it's only on the basis of the egregious number of snoozes I inflict on my alarm clock that I don't get to take it, I sit back and marvel at the amazing ability I had to sleep and the inability I had up until earlier today to realize that I wasn't really getting by on 6 hours of sleep at all. Suffice to say, when all I can think about these days is sleep, life is probably not all that much better, except for the income and the lack of curfew.

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January 1, 2005

New Year's Eve

You might think that if you had a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, that you would have the best holiday party ever. But I'm here to tell you, folks, that at 3:30 this morning, not all lights were alight atop the skyscrapers surrounding my apartment. I so deserve one of those places.

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November 29, 2004

Seniors 96!

I was a fairly normal teenager. I admit, I spent more time on my schoolwork than the average classmate, was worse at sports, cared much more, and drank so much less that you can't do percentages (0 increased to some number is an impossible calculation). So perhaps I wasn't totally normal. I did have dates, and a number of them ended as atrociously as bad high school dates could, and I had what I would estimate to be an average or slightly below average number of heated discussions with my parents about tyranny and unfairness and the like, but by and large, I led a pretty standard teenagerhood. I liked school. Naturally, school-as-institution was different from school-as-collection-of-individuals, so I could see that I was pro-Lions (Go Lions!) while being against—subtly, of course; need those recommendations—the head of the Upper School. But the school, and the classmates, even the so-called cool kids who were already former jocks by tenth grade, that I actually kind of liked. By senior year, we were forced into camaraderie. The class before us had it very visibly, up until the moment in the valedictory speech when the valedictorian excoriated, if not verbally eviscerated his classmates and told everyone assembled how much he'd grown and what a success he'd be. But we had it because we were supposed to have it. "Seniors '96!" we'd cry, and we'd meant it. There was sure to be some infighting, but we still loved each other like brothers. And in the years since, I've never really thought badly of my experiences at the school; but that may have been because I was never really in trouble, did what the teachers asked, and was generally liked. I had breakfast the other day with two friends, both of whom turned out quite well in their lives, and both of whom seemed to hate our school with a passion. More, while I have a morbid curiosity about what befell some of the "choicer" of our classmates, they couldn't care less. They don't even want to see bad things happening to the classmates who deserved nothing less. And it's a bit strange to me, because we were good friends, and we met because of that place, and where I have warm feelings for it because it prepared me for my life and netted me several close friends (though few new brothers), they have nothing but pity for anyone who attended it. And I couldn't bring myself to tell them that I did actually like it somewhat.

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November 28, 2004

Battling the Inner Fat Man

It's not a weight problem, but it's an issue. I can't eat everything I want. I am what is known as a mesomorph: I put on muscle and fat easily and relatively equally. It means I'm automatically stockier than my father, and I will never be a string bean. But if I don't exercise, the muscle will provide a perfect foundation for the fat that will build up. When I was a child, I was a "peanut". Premature to begin with, and a picky eater, it's understandable that I was not really one for the baby fat that might have lasted. When I started elementary school, where there was a formal dress code, slim pants (the boys' petite) were the order of the day. I was older than my classmates, but frailer. But that all changed when I went to camp. Suddenly, I wasn't under the watchful eye of my parents, able to have dessert without vegetables, sometimes even two, and what's more, the only currency was clothed in chocolate and imprinted with the words "Crunch" and "Hersheys". After dinner every night, and twice on Saturday movie night, we could get candy bars from the "store." These candies were bet constantly, from the outcome of the pool and ping pong games, to dares, to whatever fact was currently in dispute, whatever chore needed escape. I got fat. A third-grade eighty-four pounder. I know a number of full-grown women today who barely outweigh my 10 year old former self. Not obese, and really, probably not so bad in general, but in an environment where one could pick riflery and tubing behind a boat as athletic endeavors, it can be rather easily understood that a lot of caloric in and only a moderate caloric out led to an increase in fat content. Ever since, the fat has called to me from my abdomen after it called to me from the plate. It goes on, it stays on, and goes away only with extremely consistent exercise. Of course, this extremely consistent exercise, like the chocolatey goodness before it, becomes addictive, and where I would have been sad not to have a choco-something, I'm now irritated that I can't get my endorphin rush from a workout. I don't need to get bulked up; I just need to get the bloodflow going and the heart rate up. I snap, I get tired easily, and I don't operate at my mental best. With thanks to Mike Doughty.

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November 23, 2004

Migraine, My Pain

It's difficult to explain a migraine to someone else. It's even harder when your migraines don't take the standard form. Unlike many migraine sufferers, my head doesn't start in on its impression of an ice pick in butter with any sort of auditory or olfactory warnings. No flickering lights, no odd smells; they aren't started by trying a particular food or drink, and the only regularly-appearing commonality is a change of weather, but that doesn't cause all of them, so it's not as though I can go to the weather channel and find out if I should be stocking up on the good drugs. But to give you a picture: my migraines usually make me want to curl up and whimper under the covers. Like a feeble kitten, I make myself as still and helpless as possible, perhaps because a Zen-like rationale grips me; if I embrace the pain, become one with it, the pain will strengthen me. I want nothing more than to stop thinking, stop moving, stop breathing, stop anything that could possibly be causing my nerve endings to create such disastrous sensations. I've been known to whimper with each breath. For many years, my searing, stabbing pain in the right eye--always the right eye, never the left--is accompanied by nausea. So there I am, hoping nothing moves, but simultaneously required to be ready for the 3 second dash from prostrate whimperer to emulator of frat boys on Saturday nights, hurling my face towards the porcelain from rooms away. Tears pour from the eyes. Whether they are actually due to crying from the seemingly-endless pain, or just a side benefit--gotta keep those eyes lubricated when they can barely see straight--all I know is that my eyes take on a glassy sheen and my nose manages to cry also. One problem for me, as noted above, is that my migraines always come unannounced. They tiptoe quietly up on me when I first sit down to my desk at the office. They pounce on me--no joke--while I'm asleep, waking me up, sometimes. They dodge and feint, sometimes coming at me full blast, requiring all of my energy, other times simply hesitantly approaching within arm's length, and then receding with merely the application of an Advil or two. Of course, all of this goes away when you go to the office. At the office, it's difficult to find a bed to curl up in, a toilet to calmly purge into, or even a moment of silence. The desk, so reliable for your papers, is rarely somewhere you want to rest your boulder of a head when it's precisely your head that hurts. And the work! Always the work! Fortunately for me, this morning, I had nothing to do; a rarity in itself, it allowed me to lose myself in my pain, and also to actually will myself into sleep, with my forehead pressed against an eyeglass cleaning cloth. The red marks were well worth getting over the symptoms.

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November 18, 2004

100 Things. No Order, No waiting.

Yeah, it's been done. But not here. I need to do it again. So: 100 Things about me:

I am not a law student, not yet a lawyer. Gotta get sworn in.
I am not afraid of vegetables, but none are my close friends.
I actively dislike raw tomatoes, yet love tomato sauce, ketchup, and bruschetta topped with tomato.
Favorite relatively-obscure muppets: Statler and Waldorf (the guys in the balcony)
I have an S. She's beeyootiful.
S is my best friend.
I am a New Yorker, virtually through and through.
I get cranky when I don't exercise.
I'm not scrawny or musclebound.
I ride my bike at least once, usually twice a week.
I never go anywhere, and I watch movies while I do.
I am 27, and my mother still likes to shop for me.
Karaoke: fun, not foolish.
I went to my first concert at the age of 19, but only because I was finally in college.
I like nice things.
I could probably talk about music all day.
Over a thousand CDs in my collection; I don't believe in Peer to Peer.
Don't ask me to pick a favorite band. I cannot do it and will ask you to refine your question.
Either that, or I'll tell you what I was listening to on the way to the office.
IPod was invented for me.
Almost every week since this summer, there is an H&H Midtown everything bagel with egg salad for brunch.
Brunch. Drool. Repeat.
I am an internally-warm person; I sweat a lot when exercising and for some time afterwards, but I'm not the guy with the under-arm rings.
I like beds; I love mine.
I have to have something over me when sleeping, and the heavier, the better. Down comforter in summertime? Bring it.
I may well have seen every Friends episode ever made.
I have seen and actually have in my possession every Sopranos episode made.
I worked in the music industry.
I don't like to make life decisions.
I like being a smartass; it allows me to watch everyone else and say how I'd do it better.
Sometimes I like to stay in, watch a movie, and do nothing, even if S isn't around.
Other times, I can go and work the party, meet the people, drink with the gang, and shout myself deaf and hoarse.
Migraines: not just another bed partner. Actually, the devil.
A short list of animals I'm fascinated by: penguins, elephants, dogs.
I would like a dog, but I'm allergic to them.
I can tie a normal tie and a bow tie without looking the mirror.
In fact, mirrors end up confusing me.
I do not have particularly clear skin, despite being 27.
I raise money for my college.
I want to be a music lawyer when and if I grow up.
I am obsessed with the Dyson vacuum.
I cannot fall asleep while reading or watching TV.
I have, however, fallen asleep in the middle of a concert.
I am a completist, and will buy every book, every CD, every film, by an artist I truly enjoy.
A short(ish) list of bands whose albums I would buy the very first day they came out: Radiohead, U2, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews, Mike Doughty, Dispatch, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Ani DiFranco, Better than Ezra, Coldplay, David Gray, Five for Fighting, Interpol, Jeff Buckley, John Butler Trio, Our Lady Peace, The Postal Service, R.E.M.
I love to drive.
I have to pee. Regularly.
I prefer diet sodas.
Chocolate could end this list right here. I am about chocolate.
Lately, I've been having this feeling where my left ring finger and pinkie feel like they're tingling, and I think it's because my elbow sits at a funny angle on my desk all day.
I do not think that it's a heart attack.
I eat my sushi in parts, and if I get a Philadelphia roll, it's totally saved for last, as dessert.
I air guitar when listening to my iPod on the street.
I like to share dinner with friends.
I like being a host.
I believe in rules.
I believe in honesty.
I have 4 stuffed animals in my house, two of which live in my bedroom, two of which were given to me by S's mother, and one of which is named Blogger Bear, who sits on my desk.
I am loyal.
Most of my close friends are women.
I am for equal rights for all people, regardless of sexual orientation, color, or any other categorization, save felons and those who hate people based on orientation, color, or other categorization.
I crashed my first and only car into a parked car on the way to school one morning. I reversed all the way home and didn't want to get out of bed.
I sometimes fantasize that I have started the first all-lawyer rock band. Being a bit of a realist, I recognize that I could sing and maybe play drums, or Ashlee Simpson all over a guitar, but not actually PLAY that guitar.
I used to remember phone numbers, appointments, and birthdays all in my head. Now I can't, because it's all in an electronic doohickey of some sort or another.
I'm an early adopter.
I'm a photographer.
I'm told I can dance, but I don't often believe it.
I have been on four continents.
When people misspeak, I have a virtually-irresistible urge to correct them, even if we both know what they meant.
I walk fast around New York City.
I am impatient on the sidewalks.
I have never pulled a work- or school-related all-nighter.
I am a (relatively) unspoiled only child.
I am extremely close with my first cousin, who is nine months younger than me. Like nearly-brothers close.
Self-deprecation, I am thy tool.
I eBay fairly regularly.
The favorite color is blue. See site, name of.
I only gamble when I'm fairly certain I can't lose. I know, it's not gambling.
I think sarcasm should be left for people who know how to use it.
I think Memento, Chasing Amy, and The Usual Suspects are among my favorite movies, but I could be wrong.
I once got lost while leading a backpacking trip.
I played lacrosse and wrestled in high school. I wasn't particularly good at either.
I rowed for a year in college. I wasn't good at that either.
I am pretty good friends with ex-girlfriends.
I know a lot of people on Friendster.
My favorite authors are Chuck Palahniuk, Brad Meltzer, Bret Easton Ellis, Jay McInerney, John Grisham, Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy.
I don't look down on people for liking popular things.
I am not religious, but I believe in spiritual introspection and trying to live as blame-free a life as possible.
I love discussion and reasoned debate, but I hate argument.
I've never had an argument with S, and I hope never to.
I broke up with my first girlfriend on Valentine's Day. We're still friends.
I want to be funny, but I rarely am when I'm trying.
I have no patience for people who obviously think they're better than me.
I am afraid of failure.
I don't like to rely on favors to get ahead in life.
I don't like to lend or borrow money; S is just about the only exception, and that's more of a zero-sum sort of financial relationship.
I like watches.
I'm thinking I might turn each of these into an individual post on my website.
I'm trying to write a novelization of my memoirs, which are really just condensations of my memories.
I'm done.

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Office Shy

I'm office-shy. I don't know if it's born of not having worked in a formal office for this long before, or if it was because after college I worked at a place where the boss wore shorts and would occasionally scratch himself while standing at your desk. Whatever it is, I find myself curiously un-outgoing (ingoing? introverted! That's the word...) But I find that walking down the hall, I attempt to say "Hi" or "How are you", and all that comes out is a bit of air and the movement of my lips forming those words. Sometimes all that comes is the lighting up of the eyes and the upward-tilting of the chin that indicates recognition of the other party. I apparently don't want to call attention to the fact that I am greeting someone else. Too much hale-fellow-well-met could sink my legal aspirations, perhaps. And I find I make the same stupid jokes and give worthless advice to people who don't need and couldn't use my advice if they wanted to. Telling senior associates "Not to work too hard" smacks of unnecessary superiority, especially when it's neither up to you--nor, perhaps, them--and you're the low person on the hierarchy anyway. Despite being a friendly and outgoing guy, I am somehow awkward and nervous in a professional setting. Neurosis? I do believe it might just be.

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October 24, 2004

Living for the Weekend

It is interesting to me that I'd already had a similar conversation on the day that Fish declares to the world that "Despite my love for deadence, I really do feel guilty wasting a day in bed....". Today, like yesterday, I got up at 11 after a late night with friends and cocktails. Never a true lush, this used to be my modus operandi.#[mo] Now, however, it holds so little allure for me, I sometimes wonder how I can at all be the same person. But last night... Last night, I glimpsed the sort of scene that everyone believes to be the New York Lifestyle™. Thousands of early-20s bouncing around the Meatpacking District, on to the next $12 lowball gin and tonic.#[hg] Hundreds of people packed into a stark, modern enclosure, dozens of them standing outside on the rooftop, looking down both literally and figuratively on Jersey in the distance#[jersey], and smoking their stiletto heels and hair wax right off. > A quick side note: while we're only talking 3 years or so ago, I realized last night--and said so to my companions--that although I can remember work in myriad details, and I can remember going out on many of those nights, I cannot for the life of me remember the transition between the two. I don't remember getting from work to the club, bar, or party. Not one little bit. And I sort of think that's odd. But I had a sudden realization that had little to do with any of the people there, or my ancient-historical pattern of weekend out-going. I love the weekend, but I'm no longer living for it. It used to be that I just counted the hours until I could go out again, see my friends, and try my hand at the Scene. But I suppose I've matured. The weekends are my time now, just as always, but instead of seeing how much of it I can spend out of the house or in bed, now the weekends are high-value times to take care of myself, do what I want to do, and every hour outside of BigFirm is a gift to myself that I get to use on my own. I suppose I've matured. The Horror! [hg]: Yes, that's exactly how much I was charged last night at the Hotel Gansevoort. Lovely rooftop view, but that should have been more than Tanqueray for that price. It should have been liquid gold. [jersey]: Actually, although it would be easy to characterize most of them as Bridge-and-Tunnel-ers, I'm told the vast majority of last night's crowd was actually Midwestern types. [mo]:Go out on weekend (including Thursdays, often) nights, till all hours of the night, going from place to place and awaking in the morning covered in sweat and mild regret, if not an actual headache.

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