THE HANGOVER I INCURRED FROM LAST THURSDAY'S BAMBOO SHINDIG seemed unremarkable when a car alarm woke me the following morning, like it always does. Alarm clocks don't sell well in Palms. My head was thumping, but my stomach felt fine, and my hangover headaches tend to be short. So a curious rotation of moans of pain and curses of disbelief could be heard from my bedroom as sunset came and went and my hangover did nothing of the sort, hence my absence from the Saints & Sinners DJ booth that night. At one point I thought I would be smart and take the opportunity to pen a masterful description of hangover agony, one that would be quoted one day alongside Emerson and Dickens. Here's what I came up with before I started crying.
my head feels like a head-sized thimble
my head feels like someone injected gasoline in it
my head feels like i've been reading for a year straight
Tonight I return to the scene of my dishonor for this week's Bamboo installment featuring deejays Spye, Excite, and the birthday boy Pudge, who will no longer be spinning at Bamboo next week since he just booked a flight to NYC. I'll save you the empty pledges we all often spew after a Big One (see A New Understanding) and skip to the Solutions section of this rant. Tonight I shall be equipped with two to three airplane bottles of mid-shelf vodka, and you are to strike me without warning if you see me drinking any liquid you can't see through. We're on at ten.
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