Schoolboy narcolepsy error, #256

Eating rather delicious Chrimbo left-over soup whilst listening to Scriabin’s Poem of Ecstasy. It’s basically a fifteen minute crescendo and, despite my rants against romanticism, I sometimes get carried away: my face is now slightly scalded, and I reckon I’ve got a couple of lentils and piece of turkey stuck under my eyelid.

Sigh. HashtagAtLeastIWasn’tUsingAKnife.

Sigh

I’m trying hard to think of that time when Western munitions raining down on a country resulted in a more peaceful, less radicalised population. I’m pretty sure it’s not Vietnam, or Cambodia, or Laos. I don’t think the Bay of Pigs was a resounding success. I’m almost certain that Lebanon, Iraq, Sudan, Yemen, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Somalia have yet to see the benefits of this particular approach to peace-making. Palestine, I understand, is currently under inspection by a sub-committee of Hell’s own Curia, seeking to learn a lesson or two in how to reduce humanity to the very nadir of misery and desperation.

But, hey, this time it will work, won’t it David?

Punctuated model of inebriation

punctuated model of inebriation (phr.) theoretical model of consumption which proposes that, over an extended period, inebriation should occur due to short bursts of intensive consumption, interspersed with long periods of inactivity. Differs from the graduated model of inebriation, which proposes continual and uniform consumption of small quantities.

Being narcoleptic, the punctuated model works best for me, as it allows downtime for a recuperatory doze mid-session. As yesterday was a feriado here, it seemed rude not to have a couple of after-lunch caipirinhas, a trajectory which clearly could not be maintained through to the small hours of the morning. Careful application of the punctuated model resulted in, twelve hours later, a pleasantly woozy end to the evening on the beach with a bunch of friends, a guitar, and a bonfire, singing those slightly saccharine but catchy tunes which seem to fall off the pens of Brazilian songwriters almost as if—well, almost as if carousing sentimental melodies on a beach till the small hours of the morning was one of the simplest but greatest pleasures of life.