AUTHOR: Kevin Kelly DATE: 3:56 AM ----- BODY: I had drinks at Firely last night, on the Ventura Blvd. curve. And I came to realize that the "bar" (any bar, really...for the most part) can become a magical place at a certain point. It does involve the imbibing of alcohol, usually between 1 1/2 and 2 1/2 drinks. You don't realize it when it's there, and it sneaks up on you slowly, but suddenly...bam. Everything is blurred together into a dark hush of lights, ice clinking in glasses, laughter, and snatches of coversation. You feel like everything you say is very profound, but in fact you probably sound like a drunken buffoon. Which is okay, because this is the time during which drunken buffoons become your brethren, when you stop waiting for your turn to talk, and you just listen, because everything they say is either hilariously funny, or some deep-seated truth that you've never quite been able to comprehend before. Everyone is your best friend, and you are everyone else's best friend.

But then, drink number four or so arrives, and you start to feel like something isn't quite right. People begin to *pop* back into autofocus, and sometimes the result isn't pretty. The guy who goes on and on about his philosophy of world peace starts sounding like an annoying jerk, and the girl who you thought who made you laugh as though you were a drowning man coming up for air begins to make you think about fingernails screeching on blackboards. You start to get a bit uneasy about things, and your stomach lurches over and mildly complains at you. You mumble something about getting back to your apartment "before work tomorrow", and stumble homeward. Laying in bed, probably still in the evening's clothes (which I do), you question the whole evening. Then sleep comes and hits you like a velvet hammer. --------