me and jcrew on night seven of homegrown. see that smile? that is the smile of a woman who will wake refreshed and happy and not at all hung over.
i barely dared to hint at my good fortune last week. once when i almost kind of casually gave it a nod of acknowledgement, i did so while knocking on -- well, plastic -- covering my own ears and trilling "lalalalala."
only sunday, once homegrown was over, did i finally spit out the truth: i wasn't hung over once. not at all. nuh uh. i woke easily each day, fleet of foot, and aside from a clutch of nerves that maybe this would be the last day of eluding a demon hangover, by the time i went out again each night i felt fine cracking into another silo.
the standard beer can as a conduit of evil? maybe i've been too harsh.
escaping a hangover takes a certain amount of luck. it also require a combination of factors -- a scientific mix of elements that i've been spent the past three weeks weighing. unfortunately, my week involved mixing my control subjects, so i will never be able to determine the specific force behind my good health.
* perhaps pbr is my power beer. the one that mingles perfectly with my body chemistry and actually repairs my sacrificial organs.
* maybe 14 hours of sleep per night is enough to mend anything.
* possible that my pre-drink meals -- gouda mac, french fries, a chicken gyro and the like -- were unpenetrateable by mere alcohol.
* the harnessing of momentum and adrenaline. maybe my body knew on experimental tuesday that i still had to trudge along through acoustic wednesday toward saturday's 2 a.m. crew jones set.
* there is a chance i didn't drink as much as i thought during homegrown. by the time things ramped up during the weekend, scavenging an actual beer from an actual beer vendor took quick thinking, sharp elbows, ability to navigate crowds, a bladder of stone and a well-maintained buzz.
regardless, this boost of fortune remains a mystery. as much of a mystery as why today -- after a modest birthday celebration on tuesday night -- i feel like complete ass. i mean, i was only out for an hour and twenty minutes last night. much of that time was spent in transit: from mr. d's, to the rustic, closing the night at the gopher. and okay, there was a nightcap, a can and a half of swill while i proved via guitar hero that leaving my car at mr. d's was an outstanding idea.
i obviously didn't prepare and follow the tenets established during homegrown. for instance, i ate a tuna fish sandwich, a tomato and yogurt for dinner. there's no grease in that. and i was chugging honey weiss rather than my power beer. as for adrenaline? adrenaline be damned. i firmly intended to not drink at all, until i got to mr. d's, saw the look on jcrew's sober face, and realized i didn't want to look like that.
* i had a weird dream about a toilet bowl. then, as soon as the sun hit the tin foil, i was wide awake. i crawled to the refrigerator for the last medicinal 32 ounces of gatorade. gone.
* then i barfed three weak little pansy pukes of what i'm assuming was stomach lining and saliva.
* turns out that dream about the toilet bowl was prophetic: despite how felt, i was registering a four which means i'm healthy and normal. it also means i have a new socially unacceptible hobby.
one sleeve of crackers, an episode of "one tree hill," a gatorade and "gossip girl," six glasses of water, "the real world," pizza, "the paper," a coke and "grey's anatomy" later and i'm feeling fine.
but not like i felt during homegrown, man.