best and worst: pre-made hangover cures

THE BEST

Amy's cheese enchiladas 

+ purple-flavored Gatorade

If your dad was anything like my dad, he definitely had a stockpile of questionable frozen food, mostly those ten-for-ten-dollars Hungry Man dinners and perhaps a stash of "Mexican" dishes, including those oddly brownish enchiladas with the super-gooey cheese that you had to scrape off the sides of the wax-paper container with your fork. 

But here's the real secret: If you were anything like me, you looked forward to the days when Dad was responsible for lunch and he would dig the enchiladas out of the freezer and shove them in the microwave. You knew Mom would hate it that he was feeding you that crap, and really, that was part of the fun, like a weird junk food alliance forged between the two of you. 

Today I can no longer justify eating the frozen enchiladas of my youth, but that hasn't satiated the craving, especially after a night of boozing. Fortunately, Amy's cheese enchiladas exist. They're supposedly "organic," or at least as organic as frozen food can be, and they have the same brown sauce, puddles of grease and gooey cheese as the ones I remember from childhood. 

Pair the enchiladas with purple-flavored Gatorade (because sports-drink flavors defy all description except their respective colors) and two Tylenol, and you'll be on your way out of bed in no time. Because even though Eugene Mirman's way of saying "thank you" is to get drunk and not go to work, in most of our cases it will not express gratitude; it will just get us fired.

THE WORST

Simply Asia spicy kung pao noodle bowl

+ milk

Make no mistake about the Simply Asia noodle bowls: Despite the slick packaging featuring photographs of yummy-looking, restaurant-quality noodles garnished with shit like cilantro and orange slices, that shit is nothing but dressed-up Ramen. Seriously, imagine a homeless guy putting on a brand-new shirt from, like, the Gap but not taking the time to shave his beard, comb his hair, brush his teeth, put down the bottle of Old Crow, etc., and you will have an idea of what the Simply Asia brand is all about.

And it wouldn't even be that bad -- because let's face it, there's a time and place for Ramen (it's called "college") -- if it weren't 90 percent sodium. Think about it: You're hungover. You're already dehydrated. You need something that's gonna fill your stomach and distract your body from the fact that you spent all of last night poisoning it, not sap your remaining moisture, which is your lifeblood and the only thing preventing your brain from banging against the sides of your skull like the dried-out husk it has become.

Pair this bowl of nasty with a glass of milk (yes, I've actually made this mistake) and you'll find your innards twisting in weird, violent ways, and then you'll find yourself hugging the toilet and begging it to stop. I didn't puke, but that's only because I have an iron stomach and could probably eat a live iguana without puking. But you don't have to take my word for it...

opening my mouth and removing all doubt

Last night instead of dinner I decided to buy wine and colored pencils. If you assumed I was a total dork before, the following booze-fueled illustrations should confirm your suspicions.

1. In the bathroom of my new apartment, you can hear EVERYTHING. Not exaggerating – entire conversations (and other stuff) that occur in the bathrooms of my upstairs and downstairs neighbors are mine to behold, even the upstairs chick imitating her cat’s good morning meows and guffawing at sitcoms and the downstairs dude singing “Sweet Caroline.” Sometimes, however, when I’m in the bathroom and they’re, say, in the living room, the conversations are audible but muffled, leaving me to ponder weird, loose interpretations such as, “Granny Smith’s in the foyer.”

2. Last night I went to pilates, and I’ve been doing it for at least six goddamn months (granted, not religiously), and this was the first night it actually clicked. Afterward I was so high I didn’t want to do shit except chug a protein shake, buy some colored pencils, drink wine and draw crap. And it took me a delightful 20-minute car ride to arrive at the conclusion that these were the absolutely perfect evening plans. So here’s the journey I imagine my endorphins took:

3. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love Harry Potter. But, um, they kind of cut off the series before the juiciest years of his life (and then awkwardly fast-forwarded to after them), and left out his stranger-fucking, jungle-juice-chugging college years. (I mean, come on, butter beer? That can't be as good as it gets in the wizarding world.) So, here’s a little preview of the book written about Harry when he went to college as an exchange student at Mizzou:

4. There’s not much to say about food anymore. And that is sad, because I love food, especially cheese, Indian food and hot shit that punishes my face. But lately I haven’t felt much like eating anything, for the reason this helpful diagram will illustrate:

5. Okay, so the sun morphed into a giant, stoned Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and then it penetrated my brain and shot its rays of forgiveness* down onto everyone who needed or deserved them:

6. And in conclusion, I generally find rituals of personal hygiene pretty boring. With the exception of oral hygiene, which is the absolute fucking coolest. If I could brush my teeth and floss 10 times a day, I probably would.**

 *I am embarrassed to admit that I recently watched the romantic comedy “Eat, Pray, Love” starring Julia Roberts and that it made me cry. I generally dislike romantic comedies or any movie that comes out of the gate with the intention of manipulating me, but this quote really did it for me: "So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, and then drop it."

** I don't really pee in the bathtub, because that is disgusting. 

"POISON"

For the last three weeks, while getting ready to move into my new place, I've been staying with my parents in the KC 'burbs, and this is, hands down, the most consecutive time I've spent with them since I moved out ten years ago. 

For the most part, they're normal folks, but I'm starting to notice some of their quirks.

For example, my mom's morning routine includes drinking coffee and watching the weather while brushing the cat, and at least once a week my dad brings home leftovers from his neighborhood hangout, announcing to an indifferent audience, "I've got livers and gizzards. Who wants some?" He has also been known to enjoy the occasional episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (though he'll tell you it's my mom).

Last night after brushing my teeth in their bathroom, I found them stretched out in their respective recliners watching Dancing with Desperate Former Celebrities, or something like that. I had discovered something peculiar that demanded an explanation.

Me: "Do I even want to know why there's a giant Tylenol bottle by the sink labeled 'POISON?'"

My mom, who throws away everything on the exact date it expires, pointed to my dad, whose advice for eating past-prime foods is "just cut the mold off and it will be fine."

Dad: "That's mine."

Me: "Why do you have poison in the bathroom?"

Mom: *shakes her head* "Your father..."

Dad: "It expired, and your mother was going to throw it away. I told her I'd keep it."

Me: "So it's not really poison?"

Dad: "Your mother thinks it is." 


splitting molecules

Yes, I know I will be fine. Yes, I know it gets better with time. Yes, I know I can be strong blah blah; I don't need someone else to be happy blah; it was probably for the best blah vomit blah; and I'm gradually moving on with my life blah blah facedesk, but the truth remains: Getting dumped by someone you love fucking sucks, and I'm not going to pretend like it doesn't.

Three years later,
you fit in a box.
I taped you shut
while I wait
for a blanket to become
just a blanket again,
or a necklace
just a necklace.

For now these
once-comforting
once-loved
cold metal
paper postcard
hard plastic
relics
whisper
remember,
combing through my hair
with the rigid fingers
of ghosts.

I’ve been trimmed away like fat,
but you’re still in the
water I drink.

mud rock

Note: Know how I know this shit you're about to read is insane? It is pretty much the exact plot of a sleep adventure I had last night after taking melatonin, which boasts a side effect of "vivid dreams or nightmares." Seriously -- you gotta try it.
_______________________________
Beneath the town of Easton runs a long, underground tunnel called Mud Rock Run. The name comes from a local legend: The tunnel runs flat and dirty for several miles with a thin, sludge-filled stream cutting through the silt-covered floor, ominously calm, as though stalking invisible prey.

Then the pathway gets narrower – we told Billy that might be a problem for him, being such a fat-ass – and the water starts spewing from above with the strength of ten trains. If you can find your footing on the sharp, slippery rocks and forge upward through the waterfall, you’ll reach a plateau at the top, and there’s the Mud Rock: shimmering, ten feet tall, made of solid gold and balanced on its edge like a ballerina en pointe.   

We would call it a natural wonder, if it weren’t so obviously a mistake.

strange days

I'm naturally a depressive person, but even though these are dark days in the life of Lutz, I'm working on it.

These things help (and seriously, if you have no room in your heart for cute cat pictures, I have no room in my heart for you):

Little Lady Phoenix lends a hand.

Bubbie is real serious about cleaning his belly fluff.

Like a lazy junkie, Fifi spends the whole damn day in bed.

"Runaway train, never comin' back..."
Yeah, I was a teenager in the 90s.

deep comedy

One Saturday morning
post-whiskey binge
we snapped awake as
my cell phone alarm
shrieked the arrival of sun-up.

We were entwined,
hungover as usual,
cursing the cacophony that was
like God chewing glass in our brains.

You said
the alarm tone
must've been
composed by a
Swedish
minimalist
torture
artist
whose other
greatest
hits
include
“Neighbor's Vacuum in A-minor”
and
“Car Alarm Quartet in B-flat.”

You were always so hilarious
in the morning.

This one, I'd remember it later,
shopping for heirloom tomatoes
at Whole Foods,
giggling while running my fingers across
the improbably colorful fruit:
red, yellow, purple, orange,
some striped,
some still caked with dirt.

But for a moment I lost myself,
I squeezed a green one too tightly
my thumb piercing the delicate skin
the juice oozing out
settling into the creases of my knuckle
stinging in a fresh cut there, still red.

You called this deep comedy.