Disclaimer: This is a cautionary tale. Please do not attempt.
I never really did anything stupid in college. Well, except for that whole getting kicked out of two schools in a year and a half thing. That was pretty stupid. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about your typical college antics, those of the get drunk, fall down, go boom variety. With the small exception of a run-in with the police early on in my freshman year, I never did anything insanely stupid. In fact, I took pride in having my head on straight, giving me the credibility to openly mock all my friends and their criminal behavior. So why now, at the ripe age of 28, am I suddenly acting like a 19 year old?
Take this past Sunday night, for example: I went to the Girl Talk show, at least, I’m fairly confident that I went to the Girl Talk show. I have visual proof that I was there, in the form of about 50 pictures I don’t recall taking. But do I remember the show? The music? The dancing good times? No, sirs and madams, I do not. This, my friends, was Matthew’s first foray into that bustling metropolis known as Blackout City. Only I’m making sure it’s a round trip ticket that heads straight back to normalcy, back to civility, because that is one bastard of a town I don’t plan on visiting again.
Let’s see where Matthew’s Wild Ride went off-track:
- Bottle of $7 wine shaped like a jug
- Shot of whiskey
- Shot of tequila
- Forgot to weigh more than a labradoodle
This was one of those nights where you swear you’re sober, like that bottle of wine must have just been 20 bottles of Grape Squeeze-its© in disguise (the bastards!), then all of a sudden you can barely keep yourself from drooling on the bearded man in front of you. Where was the slow descent into madness? I, as a gentlemen, prefer to gradually creep into a gentle euphoria with class and dignity, not like a scoundrel who obviously never attended charm school. I felt like the wolfman, like I woke up with tattered clothes and a mouthful of blood. Who’s blood? Not so sure. My hope is it was mine, but who are we kidding, it could have been the Pope’s and no one would have been shocked.
Here is a transcript of the night, exactly as I remember it, beginning with that last shot of tequila at the venue bar, as I faded in and out of consciousness:
“Wow, that was smooth! It might as well just be water!”
“Wow, how did I get to the middle of the crowd….and who’s touching my face?”
“Wow, that’s a lot of people on stage…..am I at Burning Man? Hey, look, a camera, cheese!”
“WOW, WEEEEEEZERRR!!!!! WEEEZZZERRRRR!! WHEN DID WEEZER GET HERE?!?!?!”
“Wow, say cheese, guys, CHEESE!”
“Wow, this isn’t the men’s room…..excuse me, ladies.”
“Wow, why are the lights on, and where did my friends go?”
“Wow, there you are. High five……cheeeeeeese!”
“Wow, that’s a lot of vomit.”
“Wow, wow, wow, spinning.”
“Wow, it’s morning? Was I wearing this shirt yesterday? And why does my room smell like a trashcan filled with vomit? Oh, that’s why.”
And that’s when I realized I wasn’t dead, despite my best attempts to be as such. It’s a scary thing, to one minute feel totally fine, and the next minute be in your bed the next morning. I really wanted to enjoy that show. I mean, I suppose I technically enjoyed the shit out of it, enjoyed it till it begged for mercy, but what’s the point if you don’t remember the carnage? I’m just grateful to have friends levelheaded enough to take care of me when I’m acting like a jackass.
But things could have been worse, easily. I could now have a wife, or one less kidney, or be a registered member of the Republican Party. Instead, I was left with a doozy of a hangover and a heightened amount of embarrassment and shame. It’s four days later and I’m still feeling the aftershocks. Some people never got over Vietnam, or the night their band opened for Nirvana. I guess I’ll never get over The Battle of Girl Talk: The Night the Music Never Happened.