An open bar is not your friend.

This is an important lesson I learned over the weekend. My mother gave me a ticket, you see, to go (with a friend!) to the Hibiscus (soft?) opening. It was open bar, so I would have had to be either suffering from liver dysfunction (again) or insane to not go.

It was a really fun night! On some level I was paying attention to the fashion show, because I was making comments on it to John and an old friend of mine who happened to show up and sit next to me during the night. He's a really cool guy! An he's an environmentalist now...I think. Like I said, open bar.

Also, there were a couple of really worrying contestants for the Adi Senecau this year. That's our gay pageant thing, by the way. And by worrying I mean that I am glad I *know* that these ladies are men.

At some point I danced with a Queen. That was good fun. How often do you get to dance with royalty?

And then at another point they ran out of beer at the bar. This was where I made the stupid mistake of saying "onz" to a glass of red wine. And another glass, and one more if you'd be so kind, just top me up there love, that's the ticket.

Ten O'clock arrived, John and I vacated the giant tent, and headed for O's. I was unaware that my body was in the process of rejecting a large amount of mixed drinks. I think I lasted for about, oh, say ten minutes before throwing up slightly on myself.

"What's he been drinking?" a fellow patron of O'reillys queried, as I decorated the bathroom sink with a lovely shade of red.

"Open bar." I said, as a bouncer led me from the bathroom, to a taxicab that would charge me 200% extra. I think I could hear a distant mutter of approval from my fellow bathroom attendees. But that might have been the alcohol.