All the slang words for drunkenness apply equally to how one feels the morning after. Smashed, wrecked, blasted. Today I am all of those and more. Last night NYC Pride -- the folks who organize the gay parade, rally, etc. -- held a party celebrating Pride Week. It was held at Puma City, a temporary melange of repurposed cargo containers and rented space down at the South Street Seaport -- which was an unconventional choice for homosexuals, being otherwise a bastion of athleticism. Outside, one could play soccer or basketball. Inside, one could enjoy pingpong, foosball, and darts, or just gorge on complementary cocktails and platters of fabulous hors d'oeuvres.

Naturally I spent all my time indoors.

Where it was an absolute riot. Oddly, after a couple drinks, people just get better at foosball. We played teams so nobody'd have to put their cocktail down. As for darts, well, offering three hundred drunken homosexuals pointy things to throw plays out exactly the way you'd think. In a nod to the gay crowd, the big-screen TVs showed not sporting events but Betty White, Purple Rain, and Jersey Shore.

One cute young waitress always seemed to find me just as the last snack -- chicken satay, goat cheese tartlets, molé taquitos, wild mushroom canapés -- disappeared from her hors d'oeuvres tray. We started laughing about it, so the next time around she came to me first. Unfortunately, she was bearing the one dodgy snack I had all night. I'm pretty sure it was beef, and I don't think it died naturally.

Anyway, thanks to everyone involved, from NYC Pride to Puma to Skyy vodka. I had such a great time I won't even bring up the irony of a group named Pride having a photographer who won't snap anyone over twenty-five. Let's just say my anonymity is safe.