I am occasionally shocked with myself for having only gotten drunk for the first time freshman year of college in a dorm suite (pictured above). Everyone seems to have partied well through high school, and I swore beer was about the grossest thing created by man. Since this inaugural night at the vomitorium I've considered what it means to be a heavy drinker. Usually over prayers and promises never to drink again because I'm so friggin' hungover.
The last time I swore off drinking was after a bunch of birthday revelers and I hit up Dino's Bikini Bar for an ostensible "night cap." We really just wanted to make fun of the sorry people who patronize bars like that, completely unaware that we were a bunch of sorry people about to patronize a bar like that.
After Dino's I tried twice, unsuccessfully, to take a cab home to Brooklyn from Chelsea. After the second cab defeated me in my quest to make the world stop spinning, I decided I had to take more serious measures. Slumped against the wall of an unmarked warehouse I meted my superpower--vomiting--to make the Earth stop moving.
With headlights scratching at my face like sandpaper, I turned my face away and saw in my carryall bag an open bottle of vodka. "That damned Canadian..." I though. Some canuck left it in my bag, and now I smell like the entirety of Manhattan. (Always blame the Canadians.) Somehow I got home and kept meting my superpower, again, swearing off booze... or at least vodka and Canadians.
The next day, I discovered The Hangover Cure:
+Hot and Sour soup
+Water (and this is going to sound weird, but a little bit of salt helps it taste less like aluminum)
+Singing out loud
+A lot of self-reflection
+A short but fast jog
I'm halfway through fried kimchi and coffee today, trying to recall that Ginsberg poem about vomiting through the years (yeah, which one, right?). I wonder if God likes vodka.