THREE
Never Forget the Tire Iron
should point out that, contrary to popular belief, I’m not always completely to blame for my drunken shenanigans. And while I do make my best effort to be a professional at all times, sometimes my best just isn’t good enough. Alcohol is a slippery mistress. One day she brings out the charismatic charmer; the next, the irate hothead. All of which is to say that occasionally on booze junkets like the one I’m about to describe, I get wasted (my hosts’ fault entirely for overserving me, you understand) and wind up behaving in a manner polite society deems inappropriate or—as a former editor of mine at the Tribune Company observed moments before firing me—“completely and utterly assholish.”
For instance, when the cultured, respectable folks who organize the Pebble Beach Food & Wine Festival invited me to attend their second annual event back in 2009, it probably never occurred to them that things—and by things, I mean me—could spin so badly out of control. In their defense, they were not the first to make that mistake.
In my defense (though my attorney suggested I try a different approach if we wound up in court), I was out of my element. Pebble Beach is a long, long way from where I live—not only geographically but spiritually. Plus, I showed up battling a touch of the flu. Turns out NyQuil doesn’t pair all that well with fine wine.
In a preweekend informational e-mail, the Pebble Beach event organizers described the land to which I was about to journey as “where verdant valleys meet a pristine coastline, where there is often a chilly fog bank that can unexpectedly move in.” Then they suggested that a lightweight cashmere sweater wrapped around one’s neck is “a perfect accessory for most daytime events.”
Which perfectly sums up what I mean about being out of my element: In the places where I normally hang out, the only reasons you would have a cashmere sweater wrapped around your neck is if you were stealing it or being strangled.
But no matter. I graciously accepted their invitation and showed up at the appropriate time and place, showered and shaved and—as presentable as my Irish genes and ripped jeans would allow—pressed onward, for I am a professional. And as a professional, I make a point of carrying two things with me at all times: a notebook and a voice recorder. What happened that weekend is why I carry them. The following transcript reflects my best attempt at a true, real-time account.
(Editor’s note: The remaining entries from Saturday have been omitted by request of the Crown Publishing Group’s legal department.)
My memory picks up again Sunday morning, what with the long drive ahead of me. Checkout time. What an amazing weekend. At least, I think. Oh, look, it’s that guy from the Grand Tasting, the one who asked me about the phone number. Greg? Gary? Yes, Gary! He’s more distinguished than I remember, at least judging from the cashmere sweater wrapped around his neck.
“Hi, Gary. What’s up, man? Hey, this is kind of a weird question, but I was just wondering who it was you were talking about when you asked if I got her phone number.”
He squints at me quizzically through the dark circles under his eyes.
“I’m really sorry, but I don’t recall meeting you,” he croaks. “It was a loooong weekend, you know.”
“Indeed it was,” I say, smiling and feeling whole again as Gary wraps an arm around his trophy wife and walks gingerly toward a courtesy Lexus, which will presumably take him to the airport.
Me? I jump in my 4Runner and gun it back toward L.A. Somehow, several days have passed and the deadline for my weekly Playboy.com column went whooshing by. Not a good thing, but not disastrous, either. At least I can use the weekend’s events as my next topic. If only I could remember them.
In the end, even though I didn’t technically bring back any memories from my little jaunt to Pebble Beach, I did emerge with one thing—a big fucking hangover. And the blinding rays of—ouch—sunshine streaming through my windshield and piercing straight into my pounding skull as I zoom down the Pacific Coast Highway aren’t helping, either. Luckily, as a professional, there’s no hangover I can’t cure. And now, I impart this invaluable wisdom to you.
Hangovers and How to Beat Them
I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.
Those words by John Steinbeck are one of the most honest assessments I’ve seen of the perils and pleasures of what I call The Life Gigantic. And that last bit—about hangovers being a consequence rather than a punishment—has helped sustain me through many a morning curled up next to the toilet on a cold bathroom floor, shaking, sweating, and swearing to all that is good and holy that I would Never. Ever. Drink. Again.
Yeah, right.
After many years of making a living by indulging in mass quantities of adult beverages, I’ve come to understand that while one is suffering the ill aftereffects of overconsumption, the urge to promise yourself you’ll never drink again can be overwhelming. But for incorrigible louts and inveterate pleasure-seekers like me, “I’m done with booze” is to drinking as “just the tip” is to one-night stands—a bald-faced lie, and one that should be dispensed with, provided everyone in the room is prepared to act like an adult. Which is to say, admit that they like to drink and fuck far too much to stop anytime soon.
So to those who are ready to grow up and admit that morning-after vows of sobriety are bullshit, yet who still wish to avoid future pain on the magnitude of that which I suffered following my Pebble Beach bender, never fear. There is an antidote.
Now, in scientific terms, when you’re trying to cure a hangover what you’re doing is trying to counteract the unpleasant physiological effects of acetaldehyde, the misery-inducing substance that alcohol turns into after holding court in your liver for a while. Since we’re living in the real world here, we’re going to ignore the fact that the best way to prevent a hangover is to avoid it in the first place by taking commonsense steps such as avoiding excessive amounts of brown liquors and sweet, sugary concoctions (let alone sweet, sugary concoctions made with brown booze), downing a glass of water after every other alcoholic beverage, eating lots of carbs prior to drinking (to slow down the rate of alcohol absorption), and—yawn—moderation.
For the sake of reality we’re also going to acknowledge that when strong drink is involved, the chances of a practicing imbiber remembering to use said hangover-prevention measures are on par with the chances of him remembering he’s married. So let’s get our heads out of our asses and forget about this prevention crap. The hangover is going to happen, so here are my hard-earned, lab-tested solutions for what to do about it.
First of all, realize there’s more to surviving a wicked hangover than making false promises and memorizing passages from lesser-known Steinbeck novels (the quote above is from Travels with Charley, by the way). For instance, anyone who regularly awakens with five angry midgets playing grabass behind their eyeballs is familiar with the following checklist: wallet, cell phone, car keys, hat, pants, outgoing cell-phone call log. But once you’ve secured the basics and satisfied yourself that the previous evening didn’t end in complete and utter disaster, it’s time to do something about the midgets—sorry, little people—and their horrible, horrible games.
When in the throes of a particularly acute hangover—say, one precipitated by excessive consumption of Southern Comfort—it’s possible that some parts of your body may claim temporary independence. The key here is to remain calm. You can ride this out. Remind yourself that your right eye has its reasons for not opening, and that your left hand will almost certainly be able to grasp things again tomorrow. In rare instances your bowels may go rogue. Hey, I’m not here to judge, but if that happens, you’re beyond my help. All you can do is pray to God you’re in a hotel room with enough cash in your wallet for a Hail Mary tip and chalk it up as fodder for your memoirs.
If legendary stoner Jeff Spicoli taught us anything in that memorable scene from Fast Times at Ridgemont High where he gleefully whacks himself in the skull with a checkered Vans sneaker, it’s that getting baked makes you virtually invulnerable to head trauma. I mean, seriously, if cancer patients use the sticky icky to mitigate the ill effects of chemotherapy, what chance does a hangover have?
There are many theories regarding the origin of the phrase “hair of the dog,” but they all amount to the same thing. To avoid the aftereffects of a night of binge drinking (or what sticklers and losers might call alcohol withdrawl), you’re going to have to start drinking again the next morning. Wonderful long-term strategy; see you at Betty Ford. But the dirty secret of this method is that it works. Just bear in mind that the trick is to drink enough to cure the hangover but not get hangover-worthy again. You’re aiming for a nap-worthy buzz here. Get really, really drunk and you will experience the Double Hangover. And friends, I have met the Double Hangover. I know the Double Hangover. You do not want the Double Hangover.
Now, most seasoned drinkers have their preferred hair-of-the-dog remedy (I once knew someone who swore by the dubious method of chasing three PBRs with a shot of Jäger), but my advice to those with an uncommonly well-stocked bar is to go with an amazingly curative shot of the digestif Fernet-Branca. It’s a bitter, aromatic spirit made with lots of soothing herbs. Best tool for the job by a mile.
For those who prefer the classics, of course, there’s always the mother of all morning-after drinks, the Bloody Mary. This delightful libation (which has the added benefit of containing at least two of your daily required servings of vegetables—practically salad in a glass) was invented at the King Cole Bar in New York City’s St. Regis Hotel, and the good folks there were kind enough to provide us with their original recipe for the “Red Snapper,” which they still serve. To wit:
1 oz. vodka
2 oz. tomato juice
1 dash lemon juice
2 dashes salt
2 dashes black pepper
2 dashes cayenne pepper
3 dashes Worcestershire sauce
Lemon wedge, for garnish
Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker. Shake vigorously. Strain over ice cubes. Garnish with a lemon wedge.
Now, the proportions here are dainty (so double ’em), and I prefer a celery stalk (and wouldn’t discourage you from adding celery salt and Tabasco, if you’re asking). That said, I completely understand if you’re too hungover to make it out to brunch and all you have in your fridge is Cheez Whiz and mustard. Basically, if it’s booze and you can keep it down, drink it. If that means three parts vodka and one part prayer, shaken over ice, I’m not going to call the cocktail police on you.
You’ve heard it before, but water really will flush the bad stuff out of your bloodstream—it helps you pee out the poison, if you will. So drink tons of liquids, and maybe pop a few analgesic tablets for good measure. Then, posthaste, you should …
Ideally with someone besides yourself. It won’t be the best lay of your life (and may be only barely tolerable for your generous and understanding—or equally hungover—partner), but it’ll get the blood pumping. Really. Sex will actually kill pain by increasing the amount of oxygen in the body. In lieu of a willing partner, you can always take matters into your own hand. Now, wash up and follow that with a heaping plate of …
First off, yum. Second off, bacon and eggs are full of protein, which breaks down into amino acids. You need those. Third off, bacon has grease. Your body wants a little greasy love right now. Fourth off, toast is starch, and that horrible mess in your stomach wants something to soak its horribleness into. And if you’re having all that, you should probably toss in a little …
The magical caffeine in coffee will constrict the blood vessels in your brain, making them hurt less. I don’t know why this works, but it does. Which is why I’d also recommend a …
Cold water also constricts your blood vessels, but without dehydrating you or throwing a wrench into your naptime plans. Added bonus: If you suddenly feel like you’re about to vomit up the huge, greasy meal I just implored you to consume, you’ll be in the right room.
If you’ve had coffee, pot, booze, water, sex, bacon, and a cold shower and are still hungover, then I put it to you that you do not actually exist. Either that or you’re Charles Bukowski. That dude’s been dead sixteen years and he’s still hungover.
“Freudian Flip”
CREATED BY JONATHAN POGASH
1 oz. Bols Genever
3/4 oz. Rothman & Winter Orchard Apricot Liqueur (from Austria)
1 whole egg
1/2 oz. demerara syrup*
Rinse of Zirbenz stone pine liqueur (also from Austria)
Nutmeg, for garnish
In a cocktail shaker, dry hump … I mean shake all ingredients (that means shaking without ice) except for the Zirbenz, for as long as your arms can handle it. Then add ice, and switch arms if you need to, and then shake again with all the vigor you can possibly drum up. Your palms should stick to the shaker tin at this point. When this occurs, strain ingredients out into a fancy cocktail glass that has been rinsed with the Zirbenz. Garnish with freshly grated nutmeg.
“This drink is reminiscent of the flips, nogs, and other fancy drinks served during the heyday of the cocktail: the nineteenth century. It’s a creamy, frothy, milky, refreshing kind of drink that sits nicely on the palate and goes down smoothly. Um … that sounds weird now that I’m reading it back to myself. Scratch that. Let’s try this again. The egg, when combined with the strong force of the Genever, enters the body, slowly coating the throat and falling into the belly, where they meet and become one. Um … hmm … that sounds kind of odd too. Screw it! Just slurp it up, will ya?”