July 25th, 2005

Why Aren't There Any Mamarazzi?

Last night was AM's going-away fête. We started at Kingfisher, where our server took an intense dislike to us and nearly drove our labor-friendly group to forego a tip. The conversation played like a series of William S. Burroughs's "routines," which I will graciously decline to reproduce. I spent a long time speaking in deliberately terrible Spanish, for reasons that remain obscure, but undermined the project by using too many reflexive verbs.

After we'd paid the extremely large tab and said goodbye to the more sensible members of our party, five of us repaired to the Tap Room at the Hotel Congress in order to prolong the pleasure.

There's nothing like a bar that is simultaneously seedy and swinging. Much revelry ensued, though I had a hard time keeping up with the imbibing of drinks. I kept looking down and seeing two full Cape Codders in front of me.

Things really heated up when I pulled out the digital camera. I brought Skylar's new one, because it takes better flash pictures than our regular camera. Looking at the night's harvest just now, I laughed hard and long. Unfortunately, most of the photos are too silly to make sense in this context. You had to be there. I did manage to come up with a few artier shots amid the madness, including one that shows the party girl's infectious bliss.

Flash photography is usually intrusive in close quarters. But the combination of our mutual abandon and the Polaroid effect, where you can see and share the picture you just snapped right away, turned the blinding pulse of light into a welcome guest. Still, there were periodic attempts to shield face and eyes from the whiteness, accompanied by shouts of "Paparazzi!" and mock Sean Penn moves

I love that glowing brand on AM's hand. It's a stigmata of happiness and regret. Here's hoping she takes up the LJ baton as promised when she arrives at her new home. She'll make a superb addition to my "Friends" list. Best of luck, ma pêche.
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