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unhealthy record breaking
Sunday, April 11 1999
I awoke with a terrible knot on the back of my head, on the left side where my neck attaches to my head. It had nagging muscular pangs associated with it like some kind of botched beheading.
I looked around the house and saw Kevin was nowhere in sight. Had he slept with Jenna the German girl? Oddly, his keys were on the glass coffee table. The front door was locked and in the bathroom was the brutal evidence of how I'd made it into the house last night. Where the hell were my keys? I couldn't remember enough of the night to know for sure, so I assumed I'd left them at Tony's. Perhaps someone had feared I'd go driving and had taken them from me. In an early-morning hangover-induced energy rush, I climbed on my bike and set off for Newport. Those keys included the only working key for the Volvo, and losing that was going to be an expensive mistake.
Tony's was closed, as one might expect for an early Sunday morning. It slowly came back to me that I'd given my keys to Kevin. So, returning to the house, I sent him a text page asking where my keys were and telling him I had his.
Al called back and said Kevin was with him. Somehow, in a drunken blur, Kevin had tried to get in his truck with my keys, given up, become lost in Ocean Beach, and ended up at Al's place, where he'd spent the night. We all decided to do lunch together.
I guess I'll never be "one of the guys." Walking around with Al and particularly Kevin can be a little like walking around with a couple of oversexed poorly-trained apes. They, Kevin especially, regard every woman of any value with cat calls and audible expressions of desire. Either they're "slutitas" or not worth mentioning. The only value this behaviour has for me is sociological. It reminds me most of hanging out with my old redneck buddy Josh Furr. Friendships with certain people can be a guilty condescension.
We did breakfast on the beach at a little restaurant near the end of Santa Monica Street. Kevin, who never seems to have any sympathy for representatives of the animal world, was horrified to see a seagull with two missing feet standing on its knees. He then fondly recounted throwing Alka-Seltzers to seagulls off a fishing boat some years back. "They eat them, they can't burp, and they explode!" he explained. "Did you ever see one explode?" I asked. "No," he admitted.
Soon after my friends went off on their various Sunday trajectories, the hangover hit me in earnest. I was in the midst of some successful LINUX stuff when it happened. I felt like I needed to give birth to my liver. It was horrible, so I just went off to lie down.
When I could muster the strength, I smoked some pot and that helped a little.
I was full of pain and regret. I chided myself for constantly falling into the trap of binge drinking. I'm never big on taking all of the blame for my problems, so I put a good amount on my friends as well. I found myself thinking that if only I stopped smoking pot and drinking booze, maybe my unhealthy friendships would whither and die and I could move on to the start of something new and glorious.
I wasn't good for much today at all. Amongst fits of nausea and long periods of unrestful bed-dwelling, I took two baths and managed to break a lifetime record for the number of orgasms in a 24 hour period. Since my early twenties, this number has stood at five. I've hit five a good half dozen times, once as recently as a month ago. But six always seemed an impossibility. After five times, the last thing my penis wants is to be touched. The fact that I broke this record at the age of 31 helped just a bit to reassure me that I'm no Fat Elvis yet.
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