from Gawker comes word of NaDruWriNi, which isn’t officially called that but should be: ’tis the National Drinking and Writing Festival, ’tis, but even we Canuckistanis shall co-opt it, for lo, we are very co-opterative up here at the socialist roof of the world, and lo, we drink more than they do, so there.

Alas, the glorious day has passed, but as they point out on the site, the next Festival is a mere 51 lost weekends away. Think of it as physical training and carry a notebook small enough to fit in your pocket so it sticks with you when you lose your purse, as you surely will around word 2,800, if I can believe what my shockingly disreputable friends tell me.

Naturally, you’ll want to pay attention to your choice of booze. Feeling feline? Go with gin. Working on a piece about the high life? See if you can’t round up a crystal Champagne flute and magnum of Cristal, or at least a couple of straws and a jug of Cribari. Working on a murder tale? Well then, what’s their poison? Kimveer Gill had Jack Daniels for breakfast his last day on Earth; Christian Brando had three Negronis and then shot his sister’s lover; Robert Frisbee drank something like seven French 75’s and a bottle of wine before bludgeoning the poor, foolish little old lady who paid for his cocktails.

Yeah, just a little something to set the mood.

I would post excerpts, if only I could read the handwriting. Click and decipher for yourselves. This is what Gawker found, from last year, and it’s representative:

observation #5

i was going to write about
an old man i saw
but am now so drunk
that i cannot concentrate enough
do do so
or remember him
h9old on
giveme a sec.