Last night, I attended Iso G.’s going away party. At least, I think I did. We celebrated G.’s first professorship with several or more beers, a round of pear schnapps, and, finally, a joint. It was sometime after that that I stopped being able to see straight. I managed to stagger home through sheer force of will, and ended the evening by passing out on my sofa.
Eleven hours later, I awoke with a hangover that came up through all the pores of my skin. As I waited for the pain relievers to take effect, I noticed bright rays of sunlight streaming through my living room window. Montreal was experiencing its first sunny day in two weeks, and I would spend it wishing for death.
The last time I passed out was in April of 1992. I was visiting Belgrade, and had spent the evening getting slavically soused at the infamous Academija nightclub. The city was mired in a blistering heat wave, and the temperature in the club, which was housed in a windowless art school basement, was easily fifty degrees. Centigrade. Our entourage decided to go outside for some fresh air, and I was about halfway up the stairs when I lost consciousness.
I later learned that Phil had caught me before I hit the ground, and quite chivalrously carried my limp body outside. I came to in a parking lot across the street, and vowed never to humiliate myself in such an obvious fashion again.
Then I drank schnapps. Thanks, G. – I owe you one.