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. 

valentine's day from A to Z

In honor of Valentine's Day, I figured it was only appropriate to compile a whiny, self-loathing list about why I'll probably die alone in a silver bullet trailer surrounded by my 35 cats, who will then proceed to eat me.

Altercations with authority figures: Sometimes I have them.
Blankets: I hog them.
Cats: They are my best friends. (Pictured below: Bubba Lee Kinsey licks Phoenix's face.)

Desire to travel: The only reason I want money.
Energy level: It is generally low.
Food: I suck at cooking it.
Generalized social anxiety: I have it.
Hairbrush: I'm not sure where it is.
Intuition: I base important decisions on it.
Jewelry: The weirder, the better.
Kansas City Royals: I'm going to keep taking their shit.
Lies: I suck at telling them.
Modesty: I have none.
Nudity: Sometimes it accidentally happens in front of the window.
Openness about thoughts and feelings: It's only achieved when drunk.
PMS: When I have it, you will know.
Quiet: I am, excessively.
Random and socially inappropriate things: Sometimes I do them.
Shyness about farting: I do not have it.
Twenty-three-year-old, creepy, balding sociopath: He proposed to me when I was 16.
Underwater creatures: They're neat, and one day I will live near them.
Very tall coffee sleeve tower: It is my pride and joy. (Pictured below: Containing coffee cup sleeves from Starbucks, The Roasterie, Muddy's, Einstein Bros. and 7-Eleven, my three-foot-tall coffee tower is nearing the ceiling of my office.)

Whiskey and wine: I like them.
Xavier: He's my godson, and he's more important than you.
Yoga: Without it, I'm a bitch.
Zack Grienke: He's on my shit list for marrying a supermodel and moving to Milwaukee.

depressed? zoloft can help...

...but heed this warning: once you start, you can never, ever stop taking it ever again.

the 6 stages of getting a speeding ticket

1. Guilt and regret.
"Oh shit, that cop came out of nowhere. Really, there's a school zone here? I should've been paying more attention. If only I'd gotten up earlier... I shouldn't have drank all that wine last night. Shit, now I'm gonna be late. Do I have my insurance card? Fuck this; seriously, fuck this."

2. Overcompensation.
"The speed limit says 45, so I should probably go 30. I will stop at this stop sign and sit here for at least 20 seconds. Go ahead and try to tell me this stop is anything but full and complete. Oh look, a school zone. It's 10 at night, but I'd better drive through it at idle speed just to be safe."


pink el camino. someday i will own this car.

 3. Indignation.
"Hey, wait a second. The speed limit says 25, and that guy just blew past me going at least 40. If I drove like that, I'd see flashing lights in my rearview. Where the fuck are the cops now, huh? How come he can get away with driving like a total asshole?"

4. Overconfidence.
"I don't see any cops around... I can probably go at least 5 over the speed limit. I'm sure it's fine. And fuck it, I'm gonna go ahead and make a U-turn here. I'm going the wrong way; what do they expect me to do? Keep driving until it's legal to turn around? Haven't they heard of carbon emissions and global warming?"

5. Panic.
"Oh shit, is that cop following me? Oh shit, he's got his lights on... oh god, here he comes. I guess I should pull over... oh god. Maybe I can tell him I have to pee... I could pee my pants right now. Maybe if I cry... oh god. I can't afford another ticket. I am fucked, so fucked."

6. Depression.
"This lawyer is going to charge me $300 to come to court for 20 minutes to get this shit reduced to a non-moving violation? And then I'm going to have to pay double the amount of the fine? This is fucking criminal. Guess I'm not going on vacation this summer. I hope I have enough left for a box of wine."

halloween haunts

Here are a few of the supposedly haunted locations I hit up this week. I'm probably going to continue hunting for ghosts periodically throughout the year - it's too much fun to save it all for Halloween week, and besides, I didn't end up catching one. Yet.

Jack Gage American Tavern 

I was really fucking excited when a photograph of the stairs in this allegedly haunted bar showed a white, moldy looking orb. With an extensive history as a gay bar, a furrier, a dry cleaner, and a sketchy, smelly Chinese restaurant that I’m convinced was really a front where people were getting whacked upstairs while I was choking down gummy crab Rangoon downstairs, it would make sense that the place be brimming with various specters. 

When it re-opened last year as Jack Gage, who was a boxing promoter in the 1920s, staff reported hearing mysterious footsteps, and speculation began that it was either the ghost of Gage or the many cats Double Dragon cooked up in their Chinese cuisine. It is common knowledge, after all, that when old buildings get remodeled the spirits get pissed the fuck off. Unfortunately, according to the Missouri Paranormal Society, orbs are not usually evidence of otherworldly wanderers but are instead due to dust or moisture in the air. So, you know. Fuck.

Sauer Castle

Located in a quiet Kansas City, Kansas, neighborhood, Sauer Castle is an ominous-looking mansion that has been abandoned since the mid-1980s. Built by German immigrant Anton Sauer in 1872, the castle has a long, dark history just begging to be enhanced with ghost stories. 

Four members of the Sauer family died on the property – Sauer’s daughter, Helen; his great granddaughter, who drowned; his son-in-law, who shot himself; and Sauer himself, of tuberculosis. There is also a legend that one of the former owners killed his entire family before throwing himself from the castle’s tower. Visitors have reported seeing a woman, most likely Sauer's wife, Mary, wandering along the upstairs balcony, as well as hearing howling and moaning coming from the house at night.

The first time I visited Sauer Castle was with my friend Danny after dark, and I considered jumping the fence but was deterred by signs warning me to beware of the dog and letting me know there was an armed guard on duty. I decided it was kind of not worth the risk. I went back during the day a couple of days later, and as I was peering through the fence I was startled by a man’s voice.

“Be careful of that fence there,” he said. “There’s grease on it.”

I couldn’t see him anywhere, so I assumed he was on the screened-in porch next door.

“I’m just taking pictures,” I said, to which he responded by letting loose a string of angry, incomprehensible gibberish. Worried he might be the armed guard referenced on the sign, I ran to my car and sped away.

Strawberry Hill Mansion Museum

The Strawberry Hill Mansion Museum in Kansas City, Kansas, has sat proudly atop Strawberry Hill for 123 years. Originally constructed in 1887 as the dream home of John and Margaret Scroggs, the house later became an orphanage for kids whose parents died in the 1918 flu epidemic. The orphanage was run by the nuns of the neighboring St. John’s Parish. 

One of the most prominent poltergeists is known as the “lady in red,” a homeless woman the nuns took in who died during a botched abortion. She appears wearing a bloodied, red 1940s-style dress, and before she disappears she always asks, “Where is the house of the priest?” One woman also encountered an angry male figure on the third floor. His full apparition supposedly chased her all the way down the stairs to the front door. Children’s spirits also linger from the orphanage days.

When Danny and I visited, the house was closed, so we wandered aimlessly into the basement of St. John’s, where they were holding some kind of bowling league. Yes, there’s a bowling alley in the basement of the creepy old church next to the haunted mansion, and it’s awesome. We had a beer at the bar (yes, there's also a bar – that’s a Catholic church for you) and considered swiping a couple of sausages from the snack table before hitting our next destination.

Sammy’s

This Kansas City, Kansas, bar isn’t haunted - at least not as far as I can tell - but it is owned by practicing witches – bottles of “witch stuff,” according to the bartender, hang from the wall beside shelves filled with bottles of liquor. Also, these photos of an antique cash register and crazy dog wallpaper are too awesome not to share. The bartender even showed us a sweatshirt they have for sale that has a portion of the dog design embroidered on the chest.

John Wornall House Museum

Each year around Halloween, this Civil War-era homestead turned museum offers candlelight ghost tours, allowing visitors to wander the haunted halls with handheld lanterns while the tour guide shares spooky and sometimes disturbing stories about the home’s history. 

Built by wealthy politician John Wornall for his wife, Eliza, the home was at the center of the Civil War conflict known as the Battle of Westport. During the battle, wounded soldiers were constantly coming in and out of the house, and many of them died there. Doctors performed surgery in what is now the dining room, hacking off wounded men’s limbs and tossing them out the window. The adjoining room is where they stacked the corpses; the tour guide described the ambiance as “quiet and heavy.”

Eliza Wornall apparently loved the place so goddamn much she never left, and she’s now one of the resident ghosts. She supposedly sticks around because she’s angry that after her death John married her hated cousin, Roma, who was her exact opposite – where Eliza was conservative and calm, Roma was a wild and lively party girl. 

Two children also refuse to leave their upstairs bedroom. During one tour the museum director heard knocking coming from within the armoire. She was convinced one of the living children on the tour had snuck inside and was playing a prank, but when she flung open the doors, the armoire was empty. After she shut the doors, the knocking immediately resumed, and that’s when that particular tour ended, as everyone was scared shitless.

Jason and I didn’t encounter any ghosts on our tour – they’ve been known to pull on visitors’ clothes and escort the ladies up the stairs with icy hands – but we did meet a couple of Civil War re-enactors, one of whom told us he has walking pneumonia but still sleeps on the ground in a primitive tent several weekends a year because he’s “just an old fool who don’t know no better.” We also met some ghost hunters from the Missouri Paranormal Society, who apparently allow guests to come along on their excursions. And if you don’t think I’m all over that invitation, you’re dead wrong.

Halloween night

I dressed up as legendarily drunk and toothless Pogues front man Shane MacGowan. And I played the part well – holy Jesus god did I get hammered.

The real deal:

 Me:

 

It was kind of fun being the Irish rover for a night, although I don't think my skin, hair, inner organs and desire for gainful employment could take it on a regular basis.

day 46: i considered the downsides

In light of my recent and very necessary decision to take a brief hiatus from booze, I've recorded some of the reasons drinking sucks.

5 things it sucks to do sober:

1. Socializing with large groups of people and/or people you don't know very well and/or people you think are cooler than you.
2. Singing karaoke.
3. Spending the night anywhere without a bed or a toothbrush.
4. Dancing.
5. Cooking dinner, cleaning the cat box or watching football.

partying at the Red Balloon circa 2006.
those are the "I'ma gonna get laid tonight" glasses.
i found them on the sidewalk.

5 things it sucks to do drunk:

1. Going through your phone book and dialing up anyone you think might be thrilled to hear from you at 1 a.m. on a Wednesday, which happens to be everyone.
2. Buying a frozen pizza, covering it in hot sauce and eating the whole thing in bed.
3. Getting to that "special kind of drunk where you're a better driver because you know you're drunk, you know, the kind of drunk where you probably shouldn't drive, but you do anyways because, I mean come on, you got to get your car home, right?" -Peter Griffin, Family Guy
4. Encountering the cops under any circumstances.
5. Doing yoga.

5 things it sucks to do hungover:

1. Sitting up straight.
2. Wearing pants.
3. Taking a shower.
4. Communicating in any terms more complex than grunts and whimpers.
5. Eating five tortillas covered with melted cheese and salsa followed by an entire box of rice noodles because there's nothing else in your fridge and your hunger is deep and insatiable.

day 37: i plundered a vineyard

Even after putting up with 27 years of its bullshit, sometimes Kansas can still surprise me. For example, I never would have guessed that in Basehor, Kansas (one acceptable pronunciation of which is apparently "base whore"), resides the fruitful Holy-Field Vineyard and Winery, which houses reds, whites, and a man-sized dog named Corky.

(I asked the woman behind the counter what breed he was, but at that point I was kind of drunk on Tailgate Red and could only point at the dog in awe and ask, "What is it?" Unfortunately I don't remember what she said.)

Last weekend Jason and I met some friends at the vineyard for an evening of jazz and wine tasting, but the experience ended up feeling more like the most epic night of summer vacation, like when my friend R. and I used to play on the trampoline for hours while singing Christmas songs and then leave secret gifts for her neighbors, Boo-Radley style.

We sat at tables surrounding the outdoor stage, sipping wine out of plastic cups and watching ominous gray storm clouds roll in. When it started to sprinkle, employees moved chairs and equipment inside while we ran amok between the rows of grapes.

Seeing the green and red bunches hanging from the vine was strangely exhilerating, much like seeing apples being pulverized for cider or gazing up at an avocado tree (seriously one of the highlights of my trip to Hawaii). There was something oddly exotic about holding a glass of delicious booze in my hand while having the source in front of me. I wanted to exclaim, "So that's where it comes from!" Instead I plucked a fat red one off the vine and shoved it in my mouth. It was seedy and sweet.

Sunset turned the still-clear sky to the west pink, while lightening streaked across the dark sky to the east. Off in the distance, the horizon was blurred by intermittent downpours. The band set up in a dimly lit room inside, illuminated only by a lamp below the singer's face. It felt like listening to a ghost story at summer camp.

We danced and and drank and stood in a gazebo in the warm summer rain and didn't worry about our hair. And that sense of abandon, of letting go, is what will make it memorable. Because the only thing that mattered was the crazy light show in the sky and the feeling of Jason's arms around my waist and his beard tickling my neck.

day 23: the boozy explorer goes bar-hopping in waldo

First, an unfortunate side note: last week my one-and-a-half-year-old MacBook, undeniably the most expensive thing I own (I like to think of myself as "big trash day chic"), blew up.

All that crazy-talk on the screen at right is what I believe to be the equivalent of a very high-tech hangover, except instead of Advil, Gatorade and pasta noodles it's going to take hundreds of dollars to make it better. In conclusion, fuck.

* * * * *

When the boozy explorer (my Pogues-inspired drunken alter-ego) goes out in search of a good time, she expects the following:

1. Strong, cheap drinks.
2. Good music that isn't so loud it prevents conversation.
3. A laid-back atmosphere in which a girl can look charmingly disheveled (i.e., no douche- or ho-bags. How to tell if you're surrounded by 'bags: count the ratio of bleach-blonde to natural hair, and anything greater than 3:1 is probably a bad sign).

Considering my good-time criteria, on Friday night The Well was pretty much batting 0 for 3. The two-story bar next door to Waldo Pizza was so jam-packed with douchebags, if you had shaken it like a high-pressured soda can, it would have spewed toxic levels of Ed Hardy shirts and spray-tanner over several blocks. The music was too loud to hear anyone without yelling, and the bartender - a skinny 21-year-old in a short, black skirt - poured almost impossibly weak $6 drinks.

Needless to say, our next stop at Patrick's Bar and No Grill felt like a haven. As its namesake boasts, the bar's menu features microwave-only treats like popcorn, mini-corndogs, personal pizzas and White Castle sliders, and pictures of Chiefs players and famous people (including one of a smiling 20-year-old labeled "Sheryl Crow") adorn the walls. Bud Light bottles are served in silver buckets, the rum drinks are strong enough to make you forget whether you left the one or the five as a tip, and the staff is friendly (when we were about two buckets in, the bartender brought us a giant, homemade cookie to share).

There is also a Nintendo Wii, which provides some excellent people watching if you're into drunken shenanigans. And really, who isn't.

I was told these fellas were Wii kayaking, though I like to think they were just really into the World Cup:



And we weren't sure what girlfriend here was trying to accomplish by rocking this saddle, but in the end she was pretty damn pleased with herself:



And pleased with myself is the opposite of how I felt the next morning, especially since boozy treasures are not the lasting kind. Except for that time in Vegas when my boyfriend found a silver bracelet on the ground.

day 6: i listened to a podcast

Having spent most of my adult life stumbling in and out of rum-flooded trenches, I am fascinated by the stories of other women who drink. And I mean it in the most grotesque sense – women who get sloppy fall-down drunk, rationalize it (it was a tough day; I didn’t eat enough; if he/she/they would just do/not do X like I want/don’t want, this wouldn't happen; etc.), and then, several days, weeks or months later, do it again.

After reading Drinking: A Love Story, Caroline Knapp’s honest and sometimes startling memoir about her decades-long (and mostly secret) struggles with alcoholism, I felt I had met a kindred spirit.

I don’t feel I have a drinking problem so much as I tend to drink problematically; I won’t touch booze for two weeks, and then one afternoon I’ll go out and buy a bottle of wine, and the next thing I know I’m sobbing on the kitchen floor and the cops are pounding on my door.

Knapp drank more regularly – she had the obligatory “secret stash” of bottles hidden throughout her home – but many parts of her memoir felt like scenes out of my own life: she would wake in the morning unsure of how she got home or where she left her car; she would be stricken with nail-biting anxiety at gatherings when they ran out of booze; she would grow irritated with the well-meaning concern of her boyfriends, who had watched her drink too much and act a fool at one too many parties.

One such well-meaning boyfriend used to tease her about her near-obsessive tendency to finish entire bottles of wine on her own. She would plunk the bottle down on the table with authority, as if to say, "I am drinking this wine tonight, so don’t even try to stop me." He called those her days as a "wine terrorist."

When I found out Knapp had died of lung cancer in 2002 at the age of 42, I mourned the loss of this woman I had never known but with whom I shared a common bond.

It seems women are less likely than men to discuss alcoholism, so when my boyfriend gave me an Aloud podcast from the Los Angeles Public Library featuring memoirist and poet Mary Karr, I was intrigued to hear her describe drinking patterns that sounded eerily similar to my own.

A successful teacher and writer whose drinking life was mostly characterized by periodic binges, Karr quit the booze for good after she nearly crashed her car into a concrete wall. In her struggles to stay sober, she test-drove various religions before settling on Catholicism after feeling inspired by the sense of community she experienced while attending mass. She details her experiences in her 2009 memoir Lit.

While I relate to the absolute lack of control and single-minded focus on getting as wasted as possible as quickly as possible after having a few drinks, Karr and I veer in different directions when considering Catholicism as a solution to this problem.

Of course I respect anyone who has overcome addiction and recognize that sometimes our last resorts can save us (Karr was a lifelong atheist), but I cannot abide a religion that says birth control and homosexuality are sinful, expects its followers to somehow reconcile a god whose love is unconditional with the possibility of eternal torture and damnation, and gives women a secondary role to men. Also, some of the pope’s stances – such as telling AIDS-ridden African communities that condoms are actually responsible for the spread of the disease – are downright dangerous.

Perhaps having been raised in an environment opposite Karr’s – everyone in my family is a devout Catholic – I simply cannot conceive of any reason why anyone would become Catholic by choice. To me it seems the same as choosing to believe in Santa Claus. At various points in the interview, Karr says “I know you think I’m crazy” regarding her choice to become Catholic. And my response is, “Well, yeah.”

On the other hand, she has managed to stay sober, while I have continued to struggle. And honestly, if I were the kind of person who could believe, maybe I would. But the older I get, the more I begin to suspect I'm just not that kind of person.

getting hammered on a budget

You’re not getting a raise in 2010. Kansas City has also experienced a record-breaking 21 inches of snow, and you’re depressed, anxious, and taking it in the ass from Father Time, a meth-addicted version of Santa who leaves the house shirtless wearing acid-wash jeans from 1987 and brings back a pack of Pall Malls and some circus peanuts from the Shell station.

The good news: though you’re broke, you can still get a bit tight after your three-hour strategic meeting at work or chain-restaurant dinner with your more-successful friends. And because you’re not fermenting grape juice in a trash bag with a piece of moldy bread stuffed in your gym sock, you’ll still be high-class compared to most bums and prisoners.

But if you want to want to poison yourself with what is essentially top-shelf rubbing alcohol, there are a couple of ground rules.

1. You will be massively hungover tomorrow.

2. The booze will not taste good.

In fact, there are no concrete benefits to getting blackout drunk on cheap booze, but if you want to obliterate some intangible, abiding malaise that resides within the thorny depths of your soul, odds are you don’t care that in 12 to 18 hours your brain will try to chisel its way out of your skull and your liver will be the size of a pummelo fruit.

Here’s what you’ll need:

1 handle of Viaka, Popov, or McCormick's vodka, $12

1 jug of Carlo Rossi sangria, $10Buying booze on a budget is the same as buying 50 rolls of toilet paper at Costco – the initial cost is slightly more than if you bought, say, a fifth, but you’re damn well not running out of that shit. And when it’s 4 a.m. and you want, no need, just one more nightcap before you stumble to bed, you want a half-full liter of vodka to work with, not the dregs of a sipped-to-death pint.

You want vodka because, unlike whiskey or rum, the difference between well and top-shelf vodka is like the difference between getting arrested on the first day of spring in a dew-kissed meadow or on the coldest day of winter after falling in a five-foot snowdrift – it doesn’t matter, you’re still getting hauled off to the clink. The sangria will be used to chase the vodka. Forget about water and soda. You also will not need shot glasses, as these are for people who have an aversion to sleeping on the rug beneath the futon or puking on the bathroom floor and attempting to clean it up with their socks; in other words, pussies. 

Pour the sangria in cups (for your safety, it is vital they are plastic) and take a hefty swig of vodka straight from the bottle. Have a few swallows of sangria, and repeat until you are sufficiently hammered, though you may not be fully aware of when this occurs.

Suggested listening: Pogues, Violent Femmes, Hank Williams.

Suggested precautions: have a trusted friend hide your cell phone and car keys; don’t walk on wooden floors wearing socks; don’t keep an entire pizza in the fridge; have ibuprofen on hand for the morning.

kind of a drunken superhero

I spent a good part of my early 20s getting hammered at Buzzard Beach, the dive bar that more closely resembles my imagination of a pirate ship than any other place I've been. I was kind of a drunken superhero - I could fall down repeatedly without getting hurt, drink upwards of eight shots without throwing up, and do really dumb shit without going to jail.

Here are some of my favorite shenanigans (the ones that aren't too embarrassing to repeat):

1. I came home hungry from the bar one night, so I cooked a frozen pizza. On my way to the living room, I dropped it face down on the carpeted kitchen floor. Without thinking twice, I grabbed a fork and plopped down next to my snack, scraping the pepperoni and melted cheese right off the carpet and into my mouth.

2. For a year I lived in a house in Westport that my former roommate and I still only call the "death house." While my previous apartment had a particularly nasty carpeted kitchen (see shenanigan number one), this house had a particularly nasty carpeted bathroom. Because it was already so nasty I decided to revel in it, and I would often invite my friends to come hang out in the bathtub to drink and smoke* with me. I passed out there on more than one occasion, oftentimes still clutching a half-empty can of PBR.

3. I used to steal from Quik Trip all the time: hot dogs, Slim Jims, Doritos, those processed beef and cheese combo packs that don't contain any actual beef or cheese. Hot dog thievery was almost too easy: you just put two (or even three) in the same container. The cashiers never question it, and five minutes later you're scarfing a free hot dog on the porch and chasing it with Crown Royal. Brilliant.

4. It was Halloween in the death house, and my friend K. showed up after hours with fake blood all over her face and chest. Deciding I wanted to look dead too, I dumped it all over my head. Then, deciding I wanted the whole "vampire" effect, I dumped at least a half ounce of the stuff in my mouth and accidentally swallowed. I immediately vomited on the kitchen floor. The next morning when my roommate got home from work, she came into my room and said, "Someone bled everywhere last night." There wasn't a hint of surprise in her voice.

5. In a nearly superhuman feat of drunken athleticism, I walked almost ten miles home from a friend's house at 7 a.m. because they were still sleeping and I felt bad waking them after drinking literally all of their beer the night before.

By Halloween of 2008, I had figured out how to apply fake blood correctly.

*I have since quit smoking, and I'm worried I'm becoming one of those awful, self-righteous former smokers, mainly because I just deleted the sentence "smoking is bad, bad, bad, and if you do it, you will die, die, die" and replaced it with this one.