Last Friday, the 25th, was Towel Day. I failed to observe it, and in penance I am rereading the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy (all five volumes). I’m on the last one, having started two days ago, because they’re very quick reading. I remember them being laugh-out-loud, roll-on-the-floor, cry-and-pee-on-yourself funny, but this time, I’ve found that I mostly just chuckle affectionately. Of course, I’ve read them many times, starting over 15 years ago, so I remember everything before I read it, plus I’m more jaded and cranky, and less impressed by clever turns of phrase than I used to be. Then tonight, something funny happened. I got a bit drunk and now I’m laughing out loud again. Even gasping for air sometimes.

Nothing like alcohol for recapturing the wonder of bygone youth. I recommend Goose Island 312, not because it’s especially youthful, but because it’s really good in the summertime. If you’re from Chicagoland, it’s also local.

Both Douglas Adams and beer make me think of the British. They love beer. They get out of work and go straight to the pubs - I mean, you see them standing around in their suits, still holding their briefcases, getting a little drunk before they even go home for dinner. Like, every day. I wonder how they ever get anything done at all. If you start drinking right after work, how do you ever manage to vacuum, or feed the dog or cat or whatever, or call some cousin whose birthday it is and whom you don’t feel comfortable talking to when you’re a little drunk? I wish I knew how they do it so I could do it too.

Of course, that’s sort of how I feel about the British anyway. I realized just recently - when watching Spaced I think - that I not only love but adore the British in a way that is all out of proportion given their actual role in history and the world. I mean, I’m Indian and from the USA - I know a lot about their (impressive) bad side. But still . . . I get all misty-eyed about them, and their castles, and their constant drizzle, and most especially their accents. The recent revelation I had is that I feel about them the way some people feel about Elves. They’re just . . . magical.

I’m sure any actual British person would feel weird hearing this, and realizing that I really do mean it. But hell, white people exoticize me all the time, and turnabout is fair play.

My mother is British - naturalized, not by birth - and I’m a British citizen. So maybe I’m a tiny little bit magical too.