Slow MotionMorning-after hangovers are about as subtle as a sledgehammer. It turns out the god of booze isn't as merciful in the daylight as he is under club strobe lights.
Which is where I was last night, not drinking myself into a stupor.
The bouncer's a chick, which I guess is a feather in the cap of feminists everywhere, but I'm almost curious to see how she's going to deal with the guys in line behind us who look like they bench-press tanks in their spare time. She waves in the giggling college girls in front of us, sneaking a peek at them in their short skirts as they walk by.
Whatever. To each his own.
Someone famous said thatcan't remember who.
She scans me and Lily up and down and steps closer to the red velvet rope, her fingers closing on the release hook before she remembers, "Gotta give me your car keys, guys. It's company policyif you're plastered when you come back out, I'm calling y'all a cab."
Lily shrugs absently and I shake my head. "I'm not drinking toni
How do you celebrate diversity?
Do you regularly browse, comment on and collect art that's wildly different from what you create?