CHOOSE RANT

Title:   Hangover Day:    November 3rd, 1999 Author:  Ruiner Update:   Luck has finally found me! Smirnoff Ice, a wonderful alcoholic lemonade that tastes really good. It's malted, so many bars will carry them, even those boring ones that won't serve mixed drinks. I can finally drink at nearly all of the clubs now! Woo hoo...				My oh my, did I feel utterly wonderful Sunday. I actually wanted to write this entry while I felt so crappy, but I didn't feel like writing. Go figure. It's for the best, because I notoriously have *no* sense of humor when I'm in pain. Headache, slight nausea. A distaste for most food. A hatred of loud noises and an insatiable need to rest. The startling feeling that Dee Snider, former lead singer of Twisted Sister has his fingers clutched into your forehead. The fun symptoms of a hangover. Yes, I drank absolutely too much Saturday night. Well, maybe not way too much, else I would have gotten violently ill. Seems that I came in just under the bar on that one. It's the apparent trade-off for me. Either I drink enough to get sick and I'm fine afterwards, or I don't quite reach that and I have a nasty hangover in the morning. And some people grill you and wonder why you drink in the first place. Well, Friday night was a good example of successful attempts at drinking. I started kind of heavy with the infamous 'Whupp-Ass Juice' concocted by my friends, and achieved 'buzz status' quickly. From there, good sense kicked in and I nursed the buzz with tasty White Russians for the rest of the night. Why strive for a higher drunken buzz? I've never found one. There's only points of utter foolishness and lapsed memory. That was a good feeling, my rationale kicking in to prevent me from falling like so many other people at the party. Of course, Saturday was a bit different. Honestly I think part of the problem was that I drank two nights in a row. I rarely if ever drink these days, meaning a supposedly low tolerance. But once you factor in my weight and my genetic tendencies towards drinking (thanks Dad!), I can hold my own even if it's been a while. And Saturday, I threw back some alcohol. The wonderful game of Three-Man, in which I surprisingly held my own. Scary thing was that I broke my own credo and moved away from liquor. See, I have no love for the taste of beer, but after a few mixers, I allowed myself to drink a Cider Jack. I know, some of you are saying "that's not a beer!", and you're right. But it sure tastes close enough to me to say 'no thanks'. Of course, you have to keep drinking during the game, and taking breaks to mix up a good White Russian or Rum and Coke is kinda rude. So I drank the Ciders. Five or six of them. Yumm. Next morning: Hangover City. Most of the guys had left the night before, since we were in Raleigh and wanted to get back to Durham. (and before you say it, yes we had a Designated Driver. Always…) Me, I stayed since I didn't feel much like moving. I wanted to help the hosts of the party clean up in the morning anyway. But man, oh man was I miserable. And I had to get up and drive almost an hour and a half to get home, without my sunglasses. Joy, happiness, fun. Why do we do this again? It isn't that I don't enjoy it. To the contrary, I like to kick back with a good mixed drink. I guess the whole event isn't that important to me. A good part of it is the effort it takes to organize a night of drinking anyway. For starters, I live in a Dry County. That would be a town that doesn't allow restaurants or clubs to sell liquor by the drink. Yes, we have ABC stores (alcoholic beverage centers), but in order to 'go out' and drink, yes we must leave town. And we always play designated driver, it would be silly otherwise. Can't do a taxi out of town, so we plan and take time. And yes, time must be allotted to get there and get back. It's all so aggravating. With all of the hassle, it's much easier to find something else to do. I mean, it's only alcohol. At least I've never 'lost time' like some people I know. You've heard of it: drink so much that you can't remember certain points of the night. Or you reach a point and memory stops, but you know things happen afterwards. Now that's drinking, let me tell you. Nope, no lost memory for the Ruiner. No 'who is this strange, yet cute woman in my bed?'. No dancing on tables. Although I do remember the odd sensation of laughing like the Pilsbury Dough Boy when someone poked me in the ribs. Eeesh, did I write that out loud? Once the end of the year comes, I think I'll get back into the swing of things. One of my good friends turns twenty-one on December 31st. Now there's a Millennium kid for ya. Actually him turning 'legal' could be one of the signs of the Apocalypse, come to think of it. He wants to go out to a bunch of clubs, which sounds fine to me. Maybe I'll even get into that 'picking women up at bars' schtick. Hey, a little alcohol, and I could be One Happening Dude. At least in my own mind. B.Mooney