HUNGOVER PORTLAND

Debate 08: my hangover wins in a landslide!

As a bleeding-heart liberal and legacy democrat, I'm amped on election season in a major way.  And if there is anything that educated professional young urbanites love more than as much as Senator Obama, it's getting wasted. 

My brother/roommate and I had some friends over Friday night to watch the debate.  We had cheese, bread, turkey-rolled-with-cream-cheese-and-pickles, salami, meatballs, and a shitload of wine.  OMG, so much wine.  Red wine, because it was chilly out.  Prior to the debate, we considered making a drinking game for the 90-minute exchange of stump speech greatest hits, but realized that such an undertaking would be too dangerous with two buck chuck.  Instead, we pretended to appreciate moderation as we sipped wine fast for, oh, 45 minutes, and started feeling sassy.  And yelly.  And drunk.  And looking for excuses to get drunker.

We couldn't help but notice that McCain tried to point out Obama's youth and relative inexperience by talking about how old he was.  He even said that his pen was old.  [Does the guy who is 23 years older than Alaska need to only use old-timey office gear?  Is he going to solve the new great depression with a fucking abacus?]  So that became a rule - any McCainosaur quip warranted a healthy chug. 

Since McCain couldn't quit bragging about getting the early bird special at Denny's, we drank to him pretty often.  We needed something just as easy for Obama, and went with a simple "change" hook.

By the end of the debate, we were so, so, so drunk.

I remember that after a couple of cigarettes we played a dice game, and then the details are fuzzy/nonexistent. 

I woke up at 5:30am with a headache so intense that I thought I was going to throw up in my bed.  I've never had a similar pain.  My boyfriend was also stirring at that ungodly hour, and the forward-thinking woman that I am melted into a pathetic, hungover, needy little girl.  "Don't ever leave," I pleaded.  Eventually he had to go to work and I went to my volunteer gig, but truly, the only thing to help me shake that hangover was remembering how Obama kicked McCain's ass in a completely presidential way and I hope that the only comparable hangover I have in 2008 is on November 5th, after the victory party.

Barfing at Denny's on MLK

On Wednesday night my older brother went to a Benson Jones show and got wasted off well whiskey.

On Thursday he went to Denny's on MLK for lunch with his ex-girlfriend and barfed.

Is this lame? No, it's awesome. We won.

Last Saturday, the my bf and I went to my office summer potluck.  This is something I'd gotten out of attending in the past, but he want to impress my bosses with his charm and intelligence, and I wanted to show off his good looks did too.  We had a blast chatting and mingling and drinking and somebody (me) got awfully tipsy by 7pm.  We got out of there before I started thinking that my co-workers wouldn't notice if we ducked out for a quickie.  And then we went to a strip club.  And to karaoke.  We were in bed early, but 8 hours of sleep couldn't shake me of the 8 hours of boozing, and I felt bad.

So bad.

And there was nothing in my fridge. 

I took some immediate initiative.  I'm totally one of those people who can snap to it and drive to the store to stock up on hangover goodies first thing in the morning.  It has impressed my friends for years. But really, it's pretty easy.  I realize wholly that the awesomeness of having a dope spread of beverages and snacks is absolutely worth the painful 20 minutes in the public eye.  Shower first?  Fuck no!  Maybe brush your teeth.  If somebody saw my bf and me filling two baskets with grapefruit juice, lemonade, sparkling water, grapes, eggs, nectarines, cantelope, croissants, scones, and probably some other stuff, who fucking cares?  Yeah, we smell like smoke and whiskey and we're fucking thirsty and starving and also about to barf, so get out of our way!

We get home, spread out the Sunday paper, and drank coffee and juice cut with sparkling water in bed.  We made croisannwiches.  We listened to NPR.  There were few stereotypical yuppy things that we didn't do/discuss.  There was a moment as we chuckled to This American Life and perused the fucking Travel section and looked at each other like "oh...whoa...uh...this is fucking lame." 

Then we realized that, a mere 90 minutes after that first painful squint of daylight, we felt okay.  Clean.  Civilized.  Alive.  No longer shaming our mothers.  It was pretty nice.

Guys, I know you're not old.  You're not "mainstream."  You certainly don't consider yourself a majorly generic lame-o.  I didn't either, until this last Sunday's special hangover filled me with a strong urge to go to Target (we did) and watch lame movies (we did) and then I felt all of my edge melt away with the taste of stale cigarettes and my memories of singing Captain & Tenille.

Fuck all y'all, it was kickass.

TERRIBLE NEWS FOR THOSE WHO LOVE A GOOD TIME

As if the world wasn't in the shitter enough these days, I've just read that Hardy Myers & Co want to get their laws and paws on the joy that is SPARKS.

NOOOOO!!!!!

Per the Willamette Week, the upcoming introduction of Sparks motherfucking RED has got some bureaucratic panties in a bunch for the safety of America's teens.  A bunch of attorneys general [not "attorney generals"; you're welcome, Mr. President] wrote the following:

Adding caffeine and other stimulants to alcohol is particularly dangerous because these additives tend to reduce the drinker's perception of intoxication and promote the delusion of drinking and functioning without impairment. 

Yes, we know, and consider it the holy grail.  Sparks Blue is my very favorite weekend-evening-having-a-drink-while-jamming-out-and-putting-on-makeup beverage!  How could they take this away from me?!?  I'm an adult and this shit is legal so keep it on the shelves!  AND WHAT IF SPARKS RED IS EVEN BETTER THAN SPARKS BLUE?  I NEED TO TRY IT!!!

I understand that their concern is the ease with which the youth can buy it, but I made it through my underage days and now deserve a peppy boost of energy and alcohol.  And although I in no way support alcohol being sold to minors, uh, guys, don't you think that America's youth might need a refreshing break from pondering the doom that may be their future?  Not condoning, just sayin'. 

Ladies and gentlemen, keep supporting the availability of Sparks at your local grocers and convenience stores and booze-related education of our youth so that this wonderful, amazing, and delicious beverage gives us hangovers for years to come.

Confidential to WW: TILT sucks.

Also, thanks for the tip, buddy.

A movie about a hangover is coming out soon.

I'm putting off a work project and googling hangovers.  (Yeah?  So what?  I work plenty.)  Anyways, guess what guys?  Zach Galifianakis, who I love, is going to be in a movie titled - get this - The Hangover! 

Unfortunately, if you make it through the end of that lengthy blurb about the movie, you'll be reminded that his last movie project was Whatever Happens in Vegas, which I hated with a white-hot rage.  [Eff you, Wesley, it fucking sucks.] 

Trying to forget about that Kutcher-esque bad taste in my mouth, I look forward to a potentially awesome movie about something to which I can really, really relate.  I am already looking forward to watching it the day after doing something I could regret.

Also, I was trying to find more info about it just now, and imdb led me to this film, which also sounds rad, and gives me another excuse to party up to gettin' lazy.  ChristmasinSeptemberwoooo!!!

Gold Dust Meridian: The hours are way, way happy here

On Saturday, after catching a chick flick filled with unfairly fantastic hair, my gal pal and I sought a little outdoor fun.  It was pretty freaking nice out, but being still a bit under the weather and totes mellowed by the Spanish landscapes, we sure as hell weren't going to turn our interest in "being outdoors" into doing something "outdoorsy."  So we checked at the Belmont Street Fair. 

It was fun - kind of.  There was food and shit to buy and friends to visit with.  But - HOLY SHIT - as we strolled in front of Zupan's, there was a stage of some funky white dudes in unfortunate shorts "jamming."  There was mention of "zion."  And then some drums kicked in.  I turn to my friend.  "If one of these assholes starts to fucking rap -" and then it happened.  I'm not NRK-savvy enough to know what shitty circa-2002-crap-rap-rock these jerks sounded like, but this band was worse, our survival depended on our ability to get the fuck out of there pronto. 

So we did.  We met up with a couple of other dudes, stopped to buy me a little sundress because I'd seriously over-estimated the end of the summer, and found sustenance in a land free of raggae-rap and blond dreads: The Gold Dust Meridian.

If y'all haven't been there, I definitely recommend that you check it out.  They have happy hour every day from 2-8pm.  I know, right?!?  The menu is small but very tasty.  It looks like an insurance office from the outside - I think it recently was one.  The interior is dark without being depressing.  The booths are great for making out and/or porking out.  It's nonsmoking but they have a decent patio.  The vibe is classy and clean but in no way pretentious.  There is a jukebox.  If you give them money they will give you food and booze!

After the heat and the walk and the hectic "keep Portland weird" vibe of the street fair, Gold Dust Meridian made for a very stylish and low-key lunch.  Since it was too hot for a bloody mary, I haven't tried theirs, and therefore cannot wholly endorse it for your weekend afternoon bar, but if their preparation of my sandwich is any indication of how they get shit done, I suspect that they'll do okay. 

So look sharp and get there. 

Psych! Still summer. And Vicky Cristina Barcelona is okay.

Note: there was a household debate about whether "psych!" has an e on the end or not.  I went with no e.  Sorry if I'm wrong.

I recently blogged about how glad I was for summer to be over.  Well, I was wrong.  I mean, I was right about how I felt, because I am the boss of my feelings, but I was wrong about the fall weather actually setting in.  It has been so hot.  Can that be my excuse for being such a fucking lazy blogger? 

I'm sorry guys.  I've been busy.  I've also been boozy.  So I've got a backlog of material, some of which merits its own post, and tonight I've got nothing else going.

Let's see - two weekends have elapsed since my last post.  Let's talk about last Saturday.  I was hungover (duh!) and a girlfriend and I went to see Vicky Cristina Barcelona. 

I'd never really thought about incorporating so much linen into my wardrobe until I saw this movie. The girl who isn't ScarJo (the one with brown hair) was super duper annoying.  Who would want such a buzz-harsher on an extended summer vacation?  Not me!  And in these economic times, I get a little stabby watching people have so much money and such soft and wavy hair.  (Okay, the hair is unrelated, but it was really nice.)

But really, forget the press about ScarJo and PenCruz smooching - the real sexy stuff happened any time Javier Bardem opened his mouth.  So dreamy!  Penelope Cruz was awesome and insanely beautiful, too.  The Spanish characters, scenery, and guitar redeemed a movie that focused far too much screen time on two privileged whiners.  

All things said and done, my dear friend and a mellow film were comforting and distracting from the headache I'd been trying to shake. Sure, it pales in comparison to my fave Woody Allen, it was overall inoffensive, and that's more than I can say for some movies I've recently seen.  I think that it will be a nice movie to enjoy with the cool fall weather and the numbing hangovers that so often accompany them.

Thank sweet fucking Christ, fall is here.

I had a pretty fucking awesome summer. 

I got some sunburns.  I read lots of some books and even a few a ton of magazines.  I watched movies in air-conditioned theatres.  I successfully grew tomatoes, peas, and zucchinis in my yard.  I decided that growing lettuce, beans, strawberries, cucumbers, and herbs is stupid and I didn't want those plants to live anyways.  I've spent lots of time with my hilarious and attractive friends and settled into a relationship with my muscular boyfriend.  And, as documented in this blog, I've gotten majorly wasted lots of times off lots of different kinds of things and I've had some noteworthy hangovers.

I love being warm and outdoors and wearing dresses and flip flops and huge sunglasses.  Oregonians really appreciate their summers more than those assholes in states with mild climates year-round.  That said, I'm glad to have crossed the Labor Day finish line, albeit barely, and a little worse for the wear.

Sure, it's technically still summer, but the kids are back in school and it's feeling crisp outside, especially at night, when I've had to bust out a few ignored scarves and jackets.  At this very moment, I'm drinking coffee in bed, listening to soft inoffensive pop music, snuggling with my cat and looking at some gray skies.  Okay, I can't actually see the sky from my window, but I imagine it to be overcast.  I'm also wearing my sweatsuit - this sweatsuit will have a recurring role in fall/winter hangovers, so get used to it.  In a little bit I'm going to see a movie with a girlfriend and shop and get some lunch.  Doesn't that sound like a wonderful September afternoon?  I'm into it.  I might wear tights.  [Readers with vaginas - y'all know what I'm talking about.]

Oh, and this might go without saying - I'm hungover.  Last night - dinner and drinks that led to blasting pop music and drinking beers and chainsmoking in my parked car.  Not that it matters, just saying I earned this syrupy post.

I'm vibing on this season change, guys.  Portland is about to look so fucking gorgeous. I'm going to be able to spend my hangovers wearing a sweatsuit indoors without feeling like a wastoid.  I'll be drinking bloody marys on Sunday afternoons and sipping motherfucking hot toddies in front of my fireplace the rest of the time.  OH HELL YEAH. 

Cheers to you, September!

Labor day hangover target: TARGET!!!

Quickly, before I forget: I was just checking my blogger email on gmail, and when I cleaned out my spam box, the side ad said: "delicious spam and broccoli casserole! serves 8." And then I barfed on my computer. So if this post is sloppy, that's why.

Okay. So, I went to that wedding the other day and got hungover. After miraculously conquering said hangover with inspirational political movies and sparkling water, the bf and I celebrated by getting shit-canned again. There was pool and space punch I was unsurprisingly hammered and felt like crap again on Monday.

The only thing I really wanted to do last holiday weekend was go to Target. I consider myself a recessionista (which is a lovely euphemism for cheap bastards like me who love clothes) and desperately wanted some new work duds. The bf, who is very, very handsome and strong and good with tools, oddly jumped at the chance to go with me. So we woke up and drank coffee and frenched and ate and then headed east towards the promised land.

GUYS - IT WAS SO SWEET. And I don't mean "sweet" like "awww, they're buying pillows together!" I mean "sweet" like "KICKASS PARTY WHOOOO!" We split apart for various times so I could try on blouses and he could...uh...power tools? No, digital watches. Okay, I'm not sure what the hell he did. We reunited to put the cart into the fucking radical cart escalator and checked out the second floor, which is what can make or break couples. "Honey, when we live together, let's get this huge and flammable machine that can make ice in 7 minutes!" "No, baby, let's get a cuisinart and these really, really huge and sexy tongs." "I like this coffee pot." "I want expensive sheets." OMG, the conversations could have made me ache with status quo domesticity of such conversations but they were shockingly more comforting than barfy.

The bright lights and shiny objects distracted me from the pain of excess and refocus on the glorious America of consumerism. I forgot about how, mere hours before, I'd fallen asleep with thai takeout on my chest, and appreciated being one of the landed gentry who could have discussions about who fucking needs a butterer.

I am 26 years old; there have been few times in my hungover woman life when a friend has suggested Target and I've gagged at the mere idea. But really - think about it. It's clean. It's shiny! It smells like popcorn and candles and nothing like alcohol or my armpits. Nobody fucks with you when you consider what color scheme your unaffordable future home may take. You'll probably never see your fellow shoppers again so you can drop F-bombs (and some sh-bombs, and a few c-bombs) like crazy.

Guys, space punch is always fucking awesome. Sometimes capitalism is, too. When your hangover is stifling and you need to feel like one of the gang, get your ass out to Mall 205, sip a little Starbies and talk shit about who the fuck needs a butterer. You'll feel better.

Wash away this icky Republican hate-fest with booze, democrats

Last Saturday I went to a wedding.  You know the story: dancing, beer, champagne, wine, whippets, blah blah blah, I thought I was going to die on Sunday.  I felt so bad. It seemed to take hours to get home although I think I was showered, with coffee and clean sweatpants, by 11am. (Gosh, it sounds depressing when I write it out like that, but it felt impressive at the time.) The dude and I, still surprised by Sarah Palin and cautiously optimistic for it to go south, treated our weary, hungover, progressive souls with a movie about the VP I'd want, who is also a woman. I'm talking, of course, about The Contender. Goddamn is that a fucking excellent movie. It's so smart. I'm not sure if there is another movie in my recent memory that makes my insides feel quite so inspired. The film, for those of you who haven't seen it, puts Joan Allen up to the VP confirmation process after it was left empty by a male VP who'd died. Jeff Bridges plays a president who not only shamelessly admits he'd chosen her for her gender in addition to her politics but also trusts her through a dirty sex scandal that she refuses to address because it is simply beneath her dignity. Gary Oldman is the super terrible, greasy, ugly, and mean Republican Congressman who hates women and spews the dirtiest of the bullshit conservative rhetoric. Oooh, I hate that guy. But I love politics and movies and my hangover was soothed by images of progressive democrats doing their thing and doing it righteously well, and by a lead character who shared not only most of my liberal views but also the distinctive physical characteristic of a vagina. So, this movie is really "now" with Palin in the running. It has made me think a lot about her various scandals and made me wonder if I, and others, hold her to a different standard because she is a woman. I don't think so. I think she just has sucky politics. Anyways, Portlanders, you probably share my political views, and if you want to share your hangover with the (female) vice presidential candidate this country deserves, watch The Contender. Oh, and have snacks prepared. Jeff Bridges eats a lot in the movie, and the only thing harder than getting off the couch mid-movie is not having anything to eat for two hours while watching the President nosh. Just sayin'.