HUNGOVER PORTLAND

GUEST BLOG: This shit is deep. Get a donut.

[Morning, guys!  One of my favorite people and local writers/wailers, Ben, agreed to slum it over on my blog, and I'm so glad he did!  He has brought the intellectual discussion up many...stuff...today.  It's that he doesn't even mention farting.  Impressive, right?  Check it!  But don't wreck it, okay?]

When hungover, there is a struggle within me. Do I deny the hangover and power through, or embrace this hangover as a precious gift from the booze gods?  Every decision is filtered through this existential prism.  Do I walk to the store and the farmer’s market to buy fresh veggies and tofu for a healthy breakfast scramble, or do I get deep-fried everything at Gravy?  Do I walk in the park and maybe clean my room, or do I couch the fuck up and watch nature shows and cable news?  (Weekend cable news is my new heroin.  So bad, so completely and utterly evil.  Yet I can’t say no.)

The true beauty of a hangover, to me, is that these decisions are not made with any conscious faculty.  I can think about them, surely.  But when it comes down to manifesting physical movement, there is no room for reason. One brushes elbows, when hung over, with one's true animal nature.

I need a pastry. I feel this need intimately. Much the same as our evolutionary ancestors on the great savanna once felt "I need a gemsbok." A deep and primal need that cannot be denied.

I hunt.

[Thank you!  I like this post.  Wise.  And thanks for introducing me to the word "gemsbok."  They are cute!  I hope you feel better soon!  I was planning on going to the mall but now I'm awfully tempted to watch tv.  Other drunks: you too can be wise and famous by sharing your hangovers at hungoverportlandatgmaildotcom. Huggles. ~Joneser.]

Outside.

Pretty fucking nice out there, isn't it?  My bf and I went for a long walk.  After the brutality of the morning's hangover and the getting stoned and eating, it hit the spot. 

Lovely.

And we had a good giggle fest over this:

Somebody built a fence right over their steps.  Freaking weirdos.

Off to enjoy some more of the day.  Next order of business: apple pear crisp!

Good morning, kittens.

Watch, repeat.




Love,
Joneser

Pabst + eggs = gas

[It is established fact that girls do not fart, but I am ignoring science momentarily for the purposes of writing this post.]

I got super drunk last night with my boyfriend and his roommates.  No reason.  We went to Side St and The Vern, I caved and smoked cigarettes (quiet, I'm trying), and then I hella scored.

So, with this 21st Century Depression I've been pinching pennies as much as the next drunk.  I now stick with PBR when I'm out, thus doubling the amount of beers I can buy without busting the bank.  It rules, because I get all wasted and stuff, but then the next day I am reminded of PBR's magical power to make me have to fart constantly.  What's up with that?  It doesn't seem to happen with High Life or any other cheap domestic.  So that's happening today.

As I'm getting ready for a fall day of Halloween shopping and spooky houses, I ease my gassy soul with hangover breakfast go-to: the egg sandwich.  I did the eggs over-easy today, with some cheddar and salsa on whole wheat toast.  Delish, right?  RIght!  Then I remember: eggs make my burps stink, as well as the farts. 

I have a hard time believing that I'm the only boozer suffering Pabst farts in these harsh economic times, and I will not judge you for letting one slip at one of the many great events happening around town this weekend. I expect the same understanding from you.

And this post reminds me of one of my favorite hangover movies:

GUEST BLOG: Feeling better than crap at the Adult Soapbox Derby

[My team's car didn't make it into the race yesterday, but we still had lots of fun at the Derby.  My bf had a different kind of fun because, well, he understands the physics (mechanics?) of what makes things with wheels roll down hills quickly.  So he's blogged it up for you guys.  He's so cute! -Joneser.]

As you have no doubt read, Joneser and I had planned on racing a car in this year's Portland Adult Soapbox Derby.  This was despite not having secured a spot on the roster (we were wait-listed) and/or having completed our car (so close).

A late night work session was planned for Race Eve to put the finishing touches on our entry (brakes, etc.).  After several hours of frantic work, it was decided that it would be impossible to complete the car and continue our relationship.  I voted for the relationship.  I stand by my vote.

When we woke early-wish, the open window was letting in both an obscene amount of daylight and a hot, muggy breeze that Joneser termed "Mouth Air."  The blacktop outside was already hot enough to cook breakfast on.  This was especially true considering my breakfast typically consists of black coffee and cigarettes.  Incidentally, breakfast did not help my hangover.

A reasonable person would also be skeptical of the curative powers of a soapbox derby.  That reasonable person would be wrong.  It was FUCKING RAD!  (Sorry, baby, is it okay for me to say rad?) [DOI. -Joneser]

The art cars (a snow globe, a rock stage, and a wrestling ring prone to passenger loss mid-turn, to name a few) were clever as always, but the true relief for my condition was to be found in the cars built

to go fast.  Seeing the collected results of so much garage engineering, the differing attitudes towards aerodynamic and flexural [not convinced "flexural" is a word. -Joneser] drag, the clean and efficient design of so many steering and braking systems - it was all so beautiful, so oily.

My hangover was dead and buried by noon (a rare feat).  The fact that I was admittedly drunk by noon played a role in that, but I really can't stress enough the important of this derby in my speedy recovery.  Portland, if it wasn't already too packed, I would strongly encourage you to attend next year.  If you do, keep an eye out for a team of hungover 20-somethings with an innovative solution to minimizing lateral flexure losses involving driver-variable wheel chamber.  I'll buy you a beer.

[Thanks, babe, what a fun and informative post!  And thanks for not dumping me for our car's failure to get done.  And readers, if you wanna talk about your local hangover activities, holla.  Kisses, and cheers to this miserable heat subsiding. -Joneser.]