"Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad."
- Kingsley Amis (from "Lucky Jim")
Fortunately, Mike's balcony had some nice cool/West Coast jazz floating out over the neighborhood this morning.
Those of you who had to leave early, go by The Villager any time over the weekend and just tell them you're with the RRCC. The Club has a credit there because we already paid for your round of Bald Pussies.