It's dark inside my eyelids, so I open them.  The room throbs
menacingly in the dim afternoon light, so I close them again rapidly.
Gingerly, I move my fingers over my head -- could it be another month
already?  No lumps.  There is another explanation.  What did I do
yesterday?  Where did I go?  With whom?

The answers come in waves of memory, piling one upon the other,
melting together in confusion, receding, only to crash forward again
with redoubled intensity.  I close my eyes tighter and try to make
sense of the images.  A flash: "Here's your water," she says, but it
isn't really water.  Another: "Hi sexy," he says into his cellphone;
three feet away, on her cellphone, she responds "I can't hear you,
somebody's talking."  And another: a giant girder upon which someone
has scrawled "accidents have no holidays."  And another: an urgent,
fevered explanation of project Oxygen; diagrams on napkins, wild
gesticulations, more drinks.  "Here's your water," she says again.

Liar.

For one moment, I remember, I understood, really understood, what
Oxygen was all about.  But the moment of transcendence eludes me now,
lost amongst the tumbling memories.  Order is important here.  I'm
pretty sure the lesbian biker bar was after the boat.  But when was
the bulldozer race through the big dig?  Before or after the
streetfight in the financial district?  Did that lead up to the
incident with the all-night laundromat and the policeman's hat?  Or
was that because of the thing with limo, the sheep, and the mayor?

I roll out of bed and onto the floor.  It's Thursday.  I know I have a
duty.  But what?  Oxygen?  Did I promise something?  Groping in my
pants, fiercely ignoring all uncertainty as to how they made it home
with me, I dig out my wallet.  Inside I find a carbon-copy of a pledge
form -- apparently I have promised a donation to Project Oxygen of 5
cents for every mile that Cog walks.  Does Cog have legs this week?  I
think hard: no, that's not today's duty.

In the bathroom, as I splash cold water on my face, more images fly
by.  Flash: "I'm a one-woman man," she says; everyone is rather
surprised.  Flash: "This is the cool kids table," someone says; "I'm
hot," she says and walks away.  Flash: "We have a strictly
professional relationship," he says; she asks "oh, so you pay him for
it, or does he pay you?"  Flash: "Is this another drink for the blonde
lush in the back of the boat?" asks the bartender.  Flash: "Here we
go, chief," says the the paramedic as he straps me into the
restraint-chair.

Drying my face, I wonder idly how I got home.  Looking into the
mirror, I notice a bulldozer in the back yard.  The word "yellow" goes
wandering through my mind in search of something to connect with, and
arrives for no obvious reason upon an image of Douglas Adams.  I close
my eyes and shake my head until the apparition passes.

Back in the bedroom, I look out the front window and notice
police-tape denoting a trail of devastation along my street; several
neighbors are just outside with picket signs.  Strange neighborhood.
I flip open my dayplanner and try to focus on the words written there.
Yes, yes, I see now.  Wednesday was the Project Oxygen Kickoff Cruise.
And Friday.... ah, yes... Friday is GSB.  And my Thursday duty is to
write the GSB announcement.  A wave of blackness sweeps over me as I
contemplate the creative process.  So many things that don't fit
together.  No, this week will not be the GNU/GSB announcement.  The
Media Lab UROP offer will have to wait.  The Olympic Luge announcement
or the Warning Shot announcement, nope.  I can't face them today.

A flatbed has pulled up next to my house.  Construction workers are
arguing with police about whether or not they can take the bulldozer.
At the same time, I realize that today's announcement must take the
form of a plea to my fellow lab denizens to help me reconstruct the
events of Wednesday night.  Those of you who weren't on the Oxygen
Harbor Cruise may nevertheless hold important parts of the puzzle --
what did you see on the news?  What did you read in the papers?  What
did you hear in the dead of night?  Could I trouble you to post bail
for some of the other 8AI grad students?

So please, dear friends, come try to find out who "she" and "he"
really are, and re-explain Project Oxygen to us all at tonight's...

****************** G I R L  S C O U T  B E N E F I T ******************
******************        5:30pm  7AI Playroom       ******************