Dateline: December 31, 2001
by Michele Christopher
I'm a 20 year old college junior. I'm up at school for New Year's because all my friends live in Cleveland and if I spend another five minutes with my family, there will be murders.
My buddies Mikhail and George are throwing a big bash. I know Mikhail from the radio station I work at here in Cleveland. In true Dishful of Metal form, I get in the kitchen beforehand and whip up a wicked pot of gumbo and dirty rice. That part's not really important to the story, but fuck it. I am just starting to learn to cook at this point and I'm proud of it. It will come into play a bit later, though.
I put my food in the car and drive down to the apartment in Cleveland's swanky warehouse district. I'm the first one there, which means I have to partake in the Official Party Christening Shot of tequila that the first guest has to do with the hosts at this particular home. That, as they say, is when things take a turn.
People start filing in, and all is well. Beer is imbibed. More tequila. Some unholy concoction of frozen fruit, vodka, and 151. People are raving about the gumbo and I'm feeling like King Shit of Turd Mountain. As midnight nears, George whips out a dozen bottles of champagne (for about 50 people) and starts pouring glasses for the toast. At midnight, we all toast and sing Auld Lang Syne (some of us are drunk enough to think that metal-growling it is apropos), and everyone kisses. In true Dishful of Metal form, I have no one to kiss. I turn around to see my fraternity brother Joe standing there. I know what you're thinking, pervs. It doesn't go down like THAT. He hands me a bottle of champagne, basically full, and says "don't put this fuckin bottle down till it's empty." He's been around longer than I have -- how can I argue irrefutable logic like that? Twenty minutes later, I put the bottle down. Empty. Yeah, you see where I'm going with this.
Still feelin great at this point, despite the fact that my eyes aren't really focusing. I'm sitting there drinking another beer. A smokin hot chick next to me tells me she likes the gumbo. At this point, I'm so tanked that I can't even SPELL inhibition, let alone have any. So we start talking. And we hit it off (at least, I remember us hitting it off). Her name is Becky, and she's 27. At this point, it's about 2:00 and my buddy Ace is driving my so-far-beyond-inebriated ass home. As I get up, Becky says "Give me a call in 6 weeks when you turn 21 ... we'll get a drink." Well, hell yes. I say to her "how about you give me your number now and I'll give you a call before that?" She does, and I scribble it on my hand.
When Ace drops me off at my fraternity house, I do the first two things anyone in my position would do: I immediately enter Becky's phone number into my computer's address book, and then I go and vomit EVERYWHERE. Still swimmy, I pass out, a great night in the books.
The next day brings me back to reality. I drive 3 hours back to my parents' house with the motherfucker of all hangovers, which my dad immediately recognizes and preys upon all day. And as a final, magnificent fuck you to my karma, in true Dishful of Metal form, I lose Becky's phone number when my computer crashes upon my return to school 4 days later. Before I ever had a chance to call her. To this day, Ace still laughs at me about that. Fuckin jerks. Happy New Year.
Baby Huey thinks about Becky when he listens to Skid Row's "I Remember You" every night.
ain't champagne hangovers a bitch?
Posted by: turtle | December 16, 2006 8:30 AM