I'm typing on a tiny keyboard. Not Blackberry small – not so small as to be ridiculous – but small enough that I need to retrain my fingers a bit. Just a little bit. I've trained my fingers for all the different keyboards I've had to use over the years. The French keyboards that confounded me in Europe when I tried to send emails back home. I think that's why I got so hammered that one night in Mannheim and drunk dialled people all over Canada. Old friends, some of whom I hadn't spoken to in years. I tracked them down from my room in the Novotel Mannheim and told them, thick-tongued and gregarious, all about my life. They were thrilled. I think.
If I phoned you up that night in 2004, it was the wine. And a solid two weeks of trying to send emails and compose weblog entries on French computers.
Also in the bar I had to listen to this group of people talk about great deals they'd gotten on brand-name perfumes and colognes at factory outlet stores all over the American midwest. They kept throwing down brand names and prices like they were business cards. It was difficult to keep track, but it sounded as if they had closets stuffed full of quarts and quarts of Poison and Polo and Trésor. Eventually they worked their way through most of the non-celebrity endorsed brands and moved on to performance footwear.
So that was stressful.