In my last journal, I promised to get all the details of this incident out and available to my non-DA crowd. Well, here you go!

Oh, yes, I did indeed grow up on all those PSAs advising such gems of ineffable wisdom as “Be cool; Stay in School”, “Tobacco is Wacko”, “Look both ways before you cross the street”, and “Your stepdad isn’t mean… he’s just adjusting.” And, being that I could not bear to disappoint Mickey Mouse, Michaelangelo, or any of the other cartoon mascots relaying this wisdom my way, I obeyed them to a “T”. A capital one.

Amongst these announcements made in the service to the public was that the substance commonly referred to as “alcohol” was a rather distasteful thing and ought to be avoided… however, I can’t specifically recall of any animated characters taking the charge in spreading the message, thus perhaps that one got lost on me. Since I’ve been 18, I’ve gotten drunk about twice a year, and only on special occasions, like Grandma’s 80’s birthday. (Hey, if you had MY relatives…) Still, I kept it relatively moderate, didn’t try to drive, and it was never so bad that I couldn’t remember events of the previous night.

As I write this, I’m nursing a headache, eased somewhat thanks to the good people at Tylenol ltd., and am operating on about four hours of sleep. I woke up at my friend Robert’s apartment, on the floor, as my other friends had already called dibs on the couch and the spare bed, and I was in no condition to coherently debate them.

The story, as was explained to me, was this… we were all celebrating Robert’s extremely brief moment of glory when the car he was driving in the Newfoundland Targa Rally appeared on TV for about 5 to 6 seconds. (Not to suggest it was an underwhelming achievement… the problem was that he didn’t crash spectacularly, which is what the documentary was mostly composed of. It’s a simultaneous form of reward and punishment for driving properly.) Naturally, beer was in abundance… I can handle beer just fine. But another guest (whose name eludes me, like much else that night) was particularly skilled in mixing drinks. I was offered several concoctions consisting of Bailey’s and whatever else was brought according to standard BYOB policy.

Eventually, the party went over to Grumpy’s, a bar somewhere on Montreal’s lively Crescent street… there was music and karaoke… and, at one point, there was a plumbing incident. At some point, either Will or Reed discovered me in a bathroom, hunched over a sink and was, according to them, “…Puking your fucking guts out, man!” To the point where the sink was filled to the rim with a rather foul and frightful brownish liquid that would not even drain because the chunks had clogged the hole. If “Grumpy” wasn’t actually grumpy before, he sure as shit was now.

Now, I am not an angry or mean drunk… I’m actually more pleasant and responsible than I am sober. A few years ago, I got plastered at a dorm party, and spent the night washing dishes while nursing a case of Molson Dry. In this case, I kept wanting to “fix” what I did, dunking my hand into the pool of bile and digging out my own self-produced globs and wads while several sympathetic hands at first gently, then forcibly dragged me away. (But not before they made me wash my own hands.)

Somehow, we stumbled back to Rob’s place, where I was deposited on a nice shag carpet and laid to rest. About noon-ish, I woke up with a stiff neck, gratefully accepted the jug of pulpy orange juice offered to me as breakfast, and headed home. As it now stands, I’m probably going to have to wash my clothes three times before the remaining traces of barf are expunged, and I’m eating anything I can to try and get said traces out of my mouth as well. I’m probably also banned from Grumpy’s as of now, and my friends will likely be shoving this incident in my face for the rest of my life.

*Thumbs up* Most fun I’ve had in months!