Since I'm in the middle of one of those weekends that only seem to come along about once every 15-20 years, I thought I'd share a little of it.
FRIDAY Woke up to a ringing phone. Expecting the worst, I answer it. It's one of my editors, calling to tell me I don't have to have the new column in for another week, that my next feature article (and its deadline) has been pushed back a month, and that I need to be in Sarasota, Florida all next week - on his tab - to do some research.
Freed from my employment responsibilities, I round up a few friends and head straight for the golf course, first stopping for a bottle of Wild Turkey and a case of beer for on-course fortification.
After golf, I get a message from the gf that I'm needed at a friend's surprise birthday party. Beer and martinis (proper gin martinis, at that) flow freely, cajun food is catered, and enormous fun is had by all. Around 10.00pm, we collectively decide that the bet way to top off the evening is to catch Maceo Parker's gig.
Maceo is incredible. I'm hammered and spend most of the night dancing atop a table with anyone I can get my hands on. When the table finally breaks, I stop dancing. It's 2.30am, so it's time to go home anyway. A quick stop in the barrio at one of the trailer-taco joints provides chicken fajita sustenance to soak up some of the booze sloshing around in my belly.
The combined effects of Maceo, malted beverages, and Mexican food purchased from some guy's trailer are strangely aphrodisiac, so we don't get to sleep until sometime after 5.00am.
SATURDAY Don't know why, but I wake up before 9.00, still feeling the effects of Maceo, Mexican food, and malted beverages. Luckily, I'm not the only one feeling this way.
Drag my ass out of bed just after 10.00. UT-Nebraska kicks off at noon, and I have a rugby match scheduled for 2.00. Brutally hungover, I figure the rugby will kill me. Fair enough. I watch the kickoff of the Texas game, slam a "hair of the dog" Shiner Bock, and head off to play ball.
At the pitch, it turns out the team we were supposed to play didn't show up. This means my team, the Huns, have a full keg of beer and enough food for two teams all to ourselves, and nothing really to do but go watch the rest of the Texas game and see how quickly we can float the keg.
The keg lasts just a few minutes longer than Nebraska's national championship hopes, so we send the rookies on a beer run. They return with several cases of beer and two gallon jugs of Cuervo Gold. We begin drinking Cuervo boilermakers.
Headbutting competition. I take first, due to my willingness to ignore the blood coming out of my nose after taking an illegal nose-hit in an early match. In triumph, I hop atop a coffee table to do a victory jig. The jig lasts longer than the table, and I am forced to do most of the dance while lying on the floor. We run out of tequila and the party begins to break up.
I somehow get home. (Thanks American Cab.) I sleep.
SUNDAY I wake up to find I've drunk my hangover into submission. I feel astonishingly good. I take a four-mile run. On the way home, I pick up a case of Redhook for the Cowboy game this afternoon. Tonight, I'll be bottling my latest batch of IPA.
I feel like I'm living in a beer commercial. My only dread is how shitty things are going to be when this hot streak ends. I figure the only thing I can do, though, is make the most of it while it's happening, and I'll just deal with the shit when it lands on my head.
Dave
Wondering if I should go ahead and buy that lottery ticket...