I sit here on this couch, wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by coffee, cradling my aching head in a desperate last-ditch effort to re-claim the stolen vestiges of my long-forgotten, alcohol-fogged, unwashed and unshaven humanity.

An email says, "hey, was that you taking pictures in the photo section at the Metro last night?" I'm forced to reply, "I'm not sure. It's possible. I know I had tickets."

(Ticketmaster's new ticket scanning method makes it impossible to know just by looking if your ticket's been used. I miss the days when they'd just rip it in half - such a sense of finality. It provided you the proof you wanted: "you were there." Somewhere I have a box of proof from my high school/college days. These days, my proof lies absent-mindedly scattered all over the tables and floors of my apartment.)

On the table in front of me is a camera, two memory cards, and a cable, all staring back at me, taunting me with images of a night that already seems far away. In a childish sing-song voice they chant, "I know what you did last night." They must die. Where are my matches?

I recall Dan and Kath sitting on the fence for an extended drama session, then finally coming to the show at the last minute. I recall trying to sell their tickets before they arrived. I recall deciding to relieve my stressed-out scalping attempts with over-priced beer...

The rest is a blur of rock and roll, camera flashes, and alcohol.

Perhaps I should take a look at these 282 pictures that magically appeared on my camera this morning.

listening to: My new hangover playlist: Squeeze "Black Coffee in Bed," the Replacements "Beer for Breakfast," Beatnik Turtle "Were All These Beer Cans Here Last Night," Van Morrison "Wild Night," Depeche Mode "More Than a Party," Jimmy Buffett "My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don't Love Jesus," Cream "Strange Brew"
in my sink: oh man i don't even want to look.