Post-Modern Drunk: The Robots Take Manhattan
Apparently, the Amish are packing.

Yes, that whole non-violent turn-the-other-cheek thing is just a front, and the Amish are carrying handguns. That is, if you can trust Nate--who was in the middle of trying to avoid a brawl with our drunk Irish bartender with an unnerving tendency to plunk free drinks down in front of you if you can handle his verbal abuse--so I'm not sure how far you can trust his word.

It was, after all, a very odd weekend, and in retrospect, kind of surreal. In the Chelsea Hotel, where so many great writers have lived and worked and drunk themselves to death, a significant portion of happyrobot showed up to drink, not work, and drink ourselves to the point where we might welcome death the next morning. It was good to finally be able to connect faces to the screennames and IP addresses that we all know so well.

The surprise of the evening was that people on the robot don't always post as their real name. They post as something known in the jargon of the internets as "handles" or "pseudonyms." No, even the robots you know so well go by fake or exaggerated names. I suppose I should have seen it coming. I mean, it's fairly obvious that Honky's last name isn't actually "Cracker." But Dorf and 3pk prefer that you call them something else in person? That's a little weird. John Ball isn't even John Ball. Blaine's first name isn't actually Blaine! K isn't actually a Kafka character posting in between inexplicable trials, but a woman with an insatiable desire for the Cure, the Reverend Horton Heat, and Texas Hold-'em. But the biggest betrayal of the evening is that Rich's last name isn't actually "Robot." If you can't trust Rich, who can you trust?

I was shocked upon looking in my wallet to discover that "Stu" isn't even my real name, either. You see what association with these people has done to me?

Tim goes by his real name, though, though he absolutely insists that you call him Tim! I could never get the inflection right. He mumbled something about having had the exclamation point legally added when he turned 18, but you know how incoherent Tim! can get when you get him going. Nate insisted on being known as N8, "with an 8," but luckily kept lapsing into the personality of a 10 year old boy before he could get too dogmatic about it.

Honky was a bit of a surprise, though. Having spent most of the evening quietly drinking shots and beers on the periphery, he finally insisting that we absolutely _had_ to eat scrambled eggs off the chest of a hooker. We managed to negotiate him down to deviled eggs off the ass of a slutty Jersey girl we kidnapped off a hen party, but he was unconsolable until then. Mr. Cracker has some freakish urges. The mind reels when you consider what could have happened had Klutch been there to urge him on. Oh, the number of times I've had to make sure the tranny gets home safely and agrees not to press charges, all because of those two.

As is his wont, Rich spent most of the evening taking photos, amassing the most comprehensive collection of robot-writer photography in existence. He claimed it was for a DIY-Solstice photo collage, but it seems much more likely that it was a collection of mugshots to aid the police in their on-going investigations. "Yes, officer, that was the robot that touched me inappropriately, and then molested my dog." Remember, you can't trust that man. Robot isn't even his last name.

The non-Solstice photos were taken in a series of increasingly obtuse angles. Rich is the only guy I know who can take a photo of his own feet and consider it a successful party photograph. He's got this fascinating extended-arm-with-a-wrist-twist over the back of the head that is just dizzying to watch; he insists it improves the pictures immensely. I don't know, the headstand seemed a bit much to me, but he's the photography expert here.

Liz, on the other hand, was a refreshing pleasure to meet. And I don't just say this because she occasionally carries blades and knitting needles, on top of being a blackbelt who seems inordinately fond of my nipples--even more fond than I am. Also, she took my arm and twisted it in a way that it wasn't originally designed to go, I think implicitly letting me know that I should properly express my platonic love for her (and gin). Which is what I'm doing right here. When she's not threatening violence upon us all, she's planning a wedding. I find that a nice combination. Refreshing. Normal. Not at all the personality of someone who would hurt me. Right?

Special thanks go out to Blaine, for the ketamine. It's a thoughtful touch that, even though he's such a laidback hoopy frood with no personal need for horse tranquilizers, he brought some Special K with the selfless intent of improving the party immensely. Thanks, Blaine! Without you the robot orgy would have been much more tense and inhibited.

Erik and Dorf made an appearance as well, primarily, as far as I can tell, to extoll the virtues of Rhode Island's lawless nature. Apparently, Rhode Island is the Texas of New England, where the few laws on the books count merely as suggestions, and suburban life consists of fistfights that end in the loser being fed to the squirrel-sized rats that roam the cities unchecked. Truly God's country, from what I understand, and exactly what Anne Hutchinson and Roger Williams intended when they founded that illustrious state. Erik and Dorf moved in tandem at all times, presumably a habit they picked up from having to cover each other. A cute couple, even behind the body armor.

There were, of course, other robots that joined us, but all the ether-binging I did during the party is starting to affect my memory. Steve Martin was supposed to come, but apparently he got wind of our plan to chain him to the radiator and hit him repeatedly with the taser, and decided to cut out early. However, if I've forgotten anyone else, please message me; I think our underwear got mixed up by mistake, and I'd love to exchange it back. This thong is starting to cut into the circulation in my legs.

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why do i have this feeling of impending doom?				it‘s what you like, not what you are like, that matters

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