I’ve always thought of hangovers
as alcohol’s
vengeful (and quite punctual) older brother.
If you picked on his sibling long enough you could
expect big bro to be popping by in the morning to
extract a corresponding measure of revenge.
Sometimes, however, his beatings are merely the icing
on the cake. Many is the morning I’ve woken with a hangover complicated by abrasions, lesions, scrapes,
bumps, bruises and even broken bones. What I’ve not always woken up with
is a clear picture as to how I got that way.
Which encouraged me to develop a complicated system
of speculation, investigation and lengthy interrogations
of eyewitnesses, allowing me to piece together and
catalogue the calamities that sometimes visit themselves
upon innocent and well-meaning drunks. I mean, we
were just trying to have a good time, right?
I’ve also included improvised home remedies in case these calamities should
befall you; and the lesson each mishap taught me. Because, as my daddy likes
to say, “If you can’t learn anything from a beating then you’d
better learn to like them.”
Fire Face
Symptoms: Burn marks about the lower lip, chin, neck
and chest.
What
happened: After getting mullocked at my favorite
dive I wound up at a friend’s place where the imbibing
options included Everclear and Bacardi 151. A few quick
belts of each served to douse whatever common sense might
have been still smoldering in my head. Then, I’m
told, my pal had the brilliant idea that we should spit
fireballs off his second story balcony. I of course insisted
on going first. I loaded up on Everclear and didn’t
know, or perhaps didn’t care, that excess grain
alcohol was dribbling down my chin.
To put it briefly, when I flicked the lighter my face
caught on fire. I bet it looked pretty cool. Luckily
my friend was alert enough to douse me with his beer
instead of the Bacardi 151.
Treatment: I applied topical burn ointment daily and
for a long masculinity-eroding week I wore a bandana
around my neck like a hardcore Loverboy fan.
What
I learned: You can drink Everclear, or you can
spit Everclear fireballs. You have to pick just one.
Swellbow
Symptoms: A swollen lump about half the size of a tennis
ball where the point of the elbow used to be. The lump
is squishy like a Jello shot.
What
happened: Skateboarding is fun. Back in the day,
I could shred with the best. So when a spindly kid—who
could probably ollie over my head and pick my pocket
at the same time—rolled up to the party on his
trick stick, I decided to show the whelp how it’s
done—old school style.
“Hey kid, lemme check out your board, man! Hold my beer and watch this
shit!”
The first spill didn’t really hurt. It’s one of the inherent advantages
of being really drunk. It doesn’t help your boardwork much, but it
insulates you from pain so you can crunch your elbow on the asphalt nine
or ten more times without a single embarrassing yelp of pain and any ensuing
loss of dignity.
Treatment: I bought syringes from a pharmacy and McCormick’s Whiskey
from the usual place. After icing the the swellbow down, I self-administered
five shots of oral anaesthesia, swabbed the area with same and sucked all
the Jello out of that tennis ball.
What
I learned: For every beer you drink you should
keep one full step away from anyone with a skateboard.
Head-Butt Hemorrhage
Symptoms: Scab-tipped horn attempting to grow out of the center of
the forehead.
What happened: I was at a Wesley Willis show, may he rest in peace.
Between sets (and shots of Crown) I decided I would like to bond with
this maniacal genius. Now, if you are hipper now than I was then, you
might know that Wesley expressed fellowship and approval by headbutting
you in the head.
“Great set, Wesley, I—”
He got right up in my face, released a loud and somewhat
alarming grunting sound, then urged me to imitate
him:
“Hey you, say whugh!”
“What?”
“Hey you, say whugh!”
“Uh ...”
“Hey you! I said to say whugh!”
“Okay. Whugh!”
My whugh! must have really impressed him, because he
reared his head way back and expressed so much fellowship
and approval that I thought he’d
split my skull in two.
Treatment: I bought a twelve pack of PBR, opened
one and put the rest in the freezer. By my third
beer they were starting to get slushy, so I started
a system where I’d take a beer from the fridge,
hold it against my horn until it was melted enough to drink. Freezer,
horn, mouth, repeat. It was a good system. After about two hours
the beers were gone and so was most of the swelling.
What
I learned: Never get in a grunting contest
with a large crazy guy with lots of scar tissue
on his forehead.
Pouty Raccoon Face
Symptoms: Two shiners and a fat lip.
What
happened: Dude, those guys were total assholes.
See, first their alpha male jerk-off leader was being,
you know, that guy. Carrying around his crappy mood like
a loaded gun. Then, after I kind of hit him across the
chops a couple times to, you know, fix his mouth for
him, his three buddies decided that maybe my mouth could
use some fixing too. Along with my eyes. Also, they spilled
my drink.
Treatment: I would have put a pair of steaks on my
eyes, but if I could have afforded a pair of steaks
I would have bought a case of beer. There’s nothing like
a black eye to make you philosophical because you get
to spend a lot of time by yourself, because you sure
as hell don’t want to walk around looking like
that. I had lots of time to contemplate how people should
stay home and drink alone when they’re in a crappy
mood cuz I stayed home and drank alone in a crappy mood.
I kept a scotch on the rocks in my hands at all times,
constantly applying it to lips and eyes. I took a lot
of showers too, because the gentle pattering of the warm
water breaks up trapped blood. After a few days I got
tired of being philosophical so I put on a pair of aviator
sunglasses and got back in the action. Corey Hart style.
When friends asked about the lip, I told them, “Just
got it injected. Do I look sexy?”
What
I learned: You generally stop being philosophical
and embarrassed about your appearance right about
the time you run out of scotch.
Mosh Pit Mash-Nose
Symptoms: Nose is mashed up and bed sheets are dyed a
cheery crimson. Matching shiners.
What
happened: Bands like Six Feet Under, Korn and
Limpbizkit don’t attract your normal type of rock and rollers.
Instead they attract hulking sub-normal mongoloids. I
didn’t know that at the time. I wasn’t even
there for the music, I was there for the free whiskey
my bartender roommate was pouring down my neck. The only
reason I went into the pit was because whiskey makes
me nostalgic. I remembered the old days when slam dancing
was, you know, sorta civilized. Back then, a stage diver
gave you a little warning before jumping on the back
of your head and driving your nose into your knee. And
if you went down people helped you back up instead of
stepping on your head.
Treatment: Broken noses bleed. A lot. So don’t
freak out when you wake up and your bed looks like the
scene of a disembowelment. I vaguely remembered resetting
my nose while still anesthetized with whiskey. If it
happens to you, you should have a doctor do it. Preferably
one who isn’t nostalgically drunk on whiskey. Direct
pressure with an ice pack brought the swelling down.
Eventually.
What
I learned: Watch out for falling rockers.
Tender Tailbone
Symptoms: Butt
hurts. But not in the way that might signal a shift in
your choice of “lifestyle.”
What
happened: The date hadn’t gone as well as
I’d hoped. In fact, I’d abandoned every vestige
of hope about five minutes into dinner and you know what
the Bible says about that: “Give strong drink unto
him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that
be of heavy hearts.” Taking the Good Book to heart,
I buoyed my heart with waves of wine, and while it didn’t
help my poverty much, I was in fine form right up until
she gave me the big kiss-off at her front steps, sans kiss. As I backed away, waving like a fool, she said
what sounded like, “Watch out for the ho’s.” How
did she know I was going back to the bar? I thought
as I fell backwards over a rolled up length of garden
hose.
It’d been like that all night. I’d say “Wine?” and
she would whine away, I’d hold up the check and say “Dutch?” and
she’d say “No, Irish-Norwegian with a little Cherokee.”
Treatment: Bruised
tailbones are like broken hearts, all you can do is numb
it with drink and wait until the pain gets bored and
shifts to another part of your body. You can expect “Howdy,
Tex!” and “Is your new
cell mate romantic?” to become standard greetings when you bowleg
your way into the bar. You can sort of sit on a barstool if you lean
forward and put most of your weight on your upper thighs, but this tends
to give the impression you’re about to lunge at the bartender and
may unsettle him. Remember to pass out face down, unless, of course,
your new cell mate is the romantic
type.
What
I learned: Watch out for the hos(e).
Gnarly Knuckles
Symptoms: Grimy red scabs across the knuckles of the
punching hand. Premature arthritis.
What
happened: I got in a fight. Not with a fellow
human being, but a much more formidable opponent
and one of drunkardkind’s most dire enemies: a wall.
Every relationship will have problems and it’s best to address them immediately
and clear the air. What you should not do is stuff the problem deep inside
and offer it alcohol. I don’t know about you, but my suppressed problems
like the hard stuff. Straight whiskey and tequila especially. The brown liquors
nourish the problem and make it grow until it gets so big and strong it leaps
right out of you (remember that scene from Alien?). It will unfailingly attach
itself to the nearest wall and naturally you try to smash the evil thing dead
with your fist.
Except you always miss. The problem, not the wall.
Treatment: When you wake up, try to move your fingers.
If you can move them reasonably well, you probably
didn’t break anything. If you can’t,
go to the emergency room and tell them the truth. You can’t get arrested
for beating up a wall, though I hear the Battered Wall Action Committee is
hammering together a victim’s panel. Probably a nice oak one.
Sorry.
I duct-taped successive bags of ice to the injured
hand and learned how to twist off beer caps with
the crook of my right arm. You can rule out keg stands
for at least a week.
What
I learned: You can’t drown problems in hard alcohol. They like it
as much as you do.
Hamburger Mouth
Symptoms: A multitude
of lacerations on the tongue, roof of the mouth and walls
of the cheeks. Teeth feel gritty, like you’ve been
chewing fine sand.
What
happened: Some inebriated imbeciles think opening
a bottle of Labatt’s with their teeth is muy
muy macho. That imbecile was me. The girl I was opening the
beer for didn’t seem all that impressed, so naturally
I bit off the neck of the bottle started chewing the
glass.
Treatment: After thoroughly rinsing my mouth to get
all the grit out, I gargled a pull of vodka to disinfect
the wounds and swallowed the vodka because that’s
how I usually start my day. Ice cold beer and Slurpies
spiked with Bacardi numbed the pain. These aren’t
the kind of wounds you can slap a bandage on, so make
sure you gargle a lot of vodka.
What
I learned: Slurpies spiked with Bacardi are
surprisingly good. Especially the Vanilla Coke-flavored
ones.
Cat Scratch Fever
Symptoms: Burning claw-like scrapes on legs and forearms,
strange puncture wounds on the palms of the hands.
Sore throat.
What
happened: It appeared as if I’d tried to tie
the tails of two rabid tomcats together then shove them
in a mailbox. They must not have been very cooperative,
because my throat felt as if I’d done a lot of
shouting.
The real source of the wounds was slightly less ridiculous,
but much more romantic. After puffing up my courage
with a jug of Carlo Rossi and half a bottle of Knob
Creek, I decided I would serenade—old-school
style—the current
renter of my heart. I sorta remembered her address. The street, house and balcony
certainly looked familiar. Even the rose bushes guarding the latticework below
the balcony seemed familiar: Hadn’t I plucked and presented a pilfered
rose from said bushes the last time she half-carried me to her lair?
A rose bush—it’s a goddamn bunch of flowers for crissakes—doesn’t
seem like much of an obstacle to a gallant romantic geared up on big jug wine
and small batch bourbon. I had this idea I would climb up the latticework to
the balcony while singing some ancient romantic ballad, an early-80s Cure song
perhaps. I shouldered through the bushes, grabbed hold of the latticework,
starting singing (Just Like Heaven? Let’s Go to Bed?) then realized that
someone’s Gila Monsters had gotten loose and were trying to claw my legs
off. I fell into the bushes and thought I’ll just sit here
and sing until she comes downstairs and chases the lizards away. Instead people started
yelling mean things at me from the balcony.
Same street, same architecture, wrong house.
Treatment: I washed the wounds out with soap and warm
water, applied a little disinfectant, then kept them
from drying out by applying a thick layer of aloe
vera lotion. I took to wearing long-sleeved shirts
and eschewed shorts for long pants. I drank Long
Island Iced Teas with a healthy dash of lemon juice
to numb the itching and soothe my ravaged vocal chords.
What
I learned: Roses aren’t considered the king of flowers because they
look pretty and smell nice. They’re king because they’re really
mean motherfuckers.
Split Skull
Symptoms: A vertical gash down the center of the forehead.
What
happened: A diagonal wound across one cheek can
appear rather dashing. Young officers in the Kaiser’s
army would inflict them on each other then tell the
frauleins down at the biergarten they got nicked while
fencing with Baron Von Richthofen.
A facial wound that runs straight down from your hairline
to the point between your eyes, however, doesn’t
look dashing at all. It looks like you jumped off the
operating table and escaped before the doctors down
at the asylum could finish replacing the evil brain
with a nicer one.
I was taking advantage of the 100% employee-discount
cocktails at a bar I occasionally bounced at when
I noticed one of the patrons was starting a ruckus.
He not only refused to pay for his beer, he dumped
it in on the floor. The bartender looked for an on-duty
door guy, found none, then fluttered one of her lovely
100%-employee-discount-pouring fingers at me.
I sprang into action, taking his empty glass and starting
him toward the door. For his part, he picked up a
full bottle of beer from a table and winged it at
my head.
If I’d been thinking I would have quickly turned and tilted my head
so I could sport a nifty diagonal cheek scar I got in a bowie-knife duel
with Norman Schwarzkopf.
Treatment: The bartender was making a lot of noise
about “emergency rooms” and “stitches” but
I convinced her that her fingers looked much prettier pouring discount drinks
than making ugly stabbing motions at hideous telephone buttons. I washed out
the wound in the restroom sink, applied iodine and a bandage from the bar’s
first aid kit, then borrowed a bandana from the lost and found to “keep
my head together.”
Sorry.
What
I learned: If someone wings a bottle at your face,
try to remember that the bottle is the brush and
your face is the canvas. To help you remember, I
wrote this little poem:
A slash on the cheek looks quite chic
A gash down the center looks like shee-it.
Chump Chin
Symptoms: Chin looks like a rotten peach smacked around
with a tennis racket.
What
happened: After getting an excellent head start
at happy hour, I joined some friends at a bar. They
must have thought my condition humorous, because
they started making me the butt of their jokes. One
finally said, “What’s
wrong, Luke, full moon tonight?”
And the lizard brain goes click!
“You tell me,” I said, turing around and dropping my trousers. “Does
it look full to you?”
As riposte, the one with the biggest mouth (and foot)
literally kicked my ass. Since my hands were busy
holding my trousers, I couldn’t catch myself
and had to use my goatee to break my fall. It’s what volleyball enthusiasts
call a “digger,” but I didn’t dig it at all.
Sorry.
Treatment: Fortunately, topical wounds to the face
heal fairly fast. It scabbed over quickly and for
a week it looked like I’d just went to town on
a bowl of chili without bothering with a spoon or napkin. On the upside,
it did make my smile seem whiter.
What
I learned: The distance between a mooner and the
moonee should always be twice the length of the moonee’s leg .
Gimp Foot
Symptoms: Foot
all swole up and don’t work so good.
What
happened: My lizard-brain autopilot clicked off
and I found myself barking street directions at a cell
phone while hugging a signpost like it was the last bartender
on earth. The street was dark and deserted and for some
reason I had one foot tucked beneath me like a flamingo.
What the fuck kind of crazy shit
is this? I thought,
putting the foot down. Shards of white hot pain shot
into my brain and I went back to being a flamingo.
But let’s backtrack a bit. It seems I’d been deposited on a friend’s
floor after going on a very successful drunken rampage at a wrap party for
an indy film in which I played—you guessed it—a rampaging drunk.
I was lying there, dreaming of slapping fellow cast members in the face with
slices of pizza, when my lizard brain woke up and decided I had to be somewhere
to do something. Now, lizards are great at basic stuff like climbing up latticework
and slapping people in the face with slices of pizza, but they’re not
real hot at complicated stuff like negotiating two goddamn porch steps. I
somehow managed to get my left knee to crush my upturned right foot, breaking
two metatarsal bones.
But what does a lizard who has to be somewhere to do
something care about broken metatarsal bones? I gimped
three blocks before finding a sign bearing street
names that I could bark at my girlfriend while shifting
into flamingo mode.
Treatment: I had to bite the bullet and see a doctor
for this one. He put on a cast and gave me crutches
which I promptly warped into cheap props for a heart-wrenching
melodrama designed to wring sympathy and free drinks
from bartenders. The production was a little rough
around the edges at first, but once I got all my
winces and moans down pat it was a real tour de force.
Played to critical acclaim in bars all over town. Badly over-acted yet surprisingly effective,
I believe was the gist of the reviews. (Broken
Man Bender MDM Oct. 2003)
Just when the production was building up some real
steam, the doctor took more X-rays and decided to
cut the cast off my foot. Which also served to cut
the sole member of the cast off from free drinks.
Sorry.
“That sure healed fast!” the doctor exclaimed. “What the devil
have you been eating and drinking?”
“Nothing and everything,” I replied.
What
I learned: Don’t count your sympathy drinks until you’ve hatched
a scheme.
Gut Garroted
Symptoms: Raw horizontal welt across the width of the
abdomen. Laughter causes pain.
What
happened: A lot of people these days like to talk
trash about the fortified variety of wines. Okay, sure,
they’re sickeningly sweet, have a pronounced
formaldehyde aftertaste and pack a wallop of a hangover,
but let me tell you something: They also make you crazy.
Good crazy. I’d spent the early evening goofing around with a bottle
of Mad Dog, then decided to take a little nap before shuffling off to the liquor
store to stock up for the night. I woke up at five minutes ‘til midnight.
Oh,
perfect, I thought as I lunged from the sofa, barreled
out the door and started sprinting in a beeline to
the liquor store three blocks away. I ran track in
high school. The 100 meter dash, the long jump, the
relays, I mastered them all. The hurdles I wasn’t so hot at.
Which is a shame because the dark metal cables that
are often used to divide poorly-lit parking lots
are surprisingly easy to miss if you happen to be
crazy on fortified wine and sprinting.
“Huuougghhh!” I said as I executed a spectacular flip that sent my
still pumping legs skyward. If cable flipping were a sport, and maybe it should
be, then every judge at the table would have been reaching for their 10 card.
My dismount, however, would have queered my chances for even the bronze.
I landed flat on my back and I lay there for a moment,
just moving my head so I could look around, sincerely
hoping someone was on hand to witness my triumph.
I jogged the rest of the way to the liquors store with
one hand holding my belly and the other held out
in front of me as a sort of steel-cable detector.
I gave the liquor clerk a detailed account of my
feat and for some reason he didn’t seem the least bit impressed. Obviously not a fan of the
sport.
Treatment: When I woke up I poured hydrogen peroxide
on my belly, which tickled and made me laugh. Which
hurt.
What
I learned: I can turn pro the instant cable flipping
becomes a recognized sport.
The Bruised Boozer Scale
Time to add up all those black-out bruises, lizard-brain lacerations and PBR
scars. Give yourself the allotted amount of points for each of your mishaps
and see if you’re living in an air bag-equipped cocoon or an accident
that couldn’t wait to happen.
Note: The
scale rewards honor, chivalry and courage, but also
deducts for blatant foolishness and sheer idiocy.
