Under The Wagon

I just got back from a long weekend in LA, and I think I broke my liver.

Now I’m not exactly sure what my liver is supposed to do. I know it does something with booze, and considering how much booze I do…I assume it has its hands full. If it has hands. Do livers have hands? Like I said, I’m a little fuzzy on the actual biology.

Anyway, this morning I had evidence that my poor liver has in fact escaped my body, and is currently hitchhiking down a lonely highway, a tiny hobo bindle over its little shoulder.

Backing up a little:

Three days in LA. Much delicious booze consumed with a delicious companion. 13 hours in transit back to Chicago. Several gin and tonics consumed in transit, because transit SUCKS. A few hours sleep before I head to my weekly open mic gig at The Elbo Room. It’s a slow night, and I’m tired. I feel the need to “perk up” a little early, and begin drinking at 9pm, instead of 10:30 (my usual starting time). A couple of Hefe-Wiesen beers. Not doing too shabby. I decide to switch to Long Island Ice Teas, because they are tasty and good. Also because I’m pretty sure I have a death wish.

Long Island Ice Tea
One oz. each:
vodka
tequila
rum
gin
triple sec

Add a little sweet and sour mix, shake well, pour into a glass, then add a splash of cola and a twist of lemon. 

If you lined up all that liquor in individual shots, there’s now way in HELL I could down them all. At least not in an upright position. But mix them all up…

I drank 3 of the things.

Somehow I make my way home, call my delicious companion in LA to tell him how much I love him (at least I think I told him that), and then the inevitable collapse into a little, fully-clothed puddle.

And this morning I had the most disturbing bowel movement of my life.

Seriously. It’s disgusting, I know, but…wow. Just, WOW. Shit was literally falling out of me. I can’t figure out how a stomach full of nothing but ramen noodles and candy can produce what was came out of me. And HOW it came out of me. Frightening, really.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure it has something to do with my liver. I think livers have those powers, and the wretched results of this morning are the effects of my liver just throwing up its wee liver hands (I’m still convinced livers have hands) and going “Fuck you, Karla. Fuck you all to hell.”

So anyone know where I can get a new liver? Because I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be drinking without one. And right now, I’m totally drinking.

I’m so not looking forward to my next trip to the bathroom.

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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Wednesday was the WNEP Theater Bowl-A-Thon, and while last year I bowled a record-breaking low of 126 over three games (36 Gutterballs!), this year I have to say…I fucking ROCKED. Rolled 200, with a couple of strikes, and a mere handful of tankers. This vast improvement was thanks to my new strategy of abandoning all pride and any hope of looking like a “real bowler.”

Every single shot…Granny style. There was no dainty ballerina-trot to the end of the lane, co-ordinated with a perfectly executed single handed launch of the ball. No. Every goddamn time, I walked up to that little line of arrows carved in the hardwood, hunched over, gripped the ball firmly with both hands (I didn’t need the little finger holes this year) and pitched it between my legs.

3 strikes, a couple of spares, and a total score of 200.

I’m pretty goddamn proud.

—————————

I was also pretty goddamn drunk.

The goal of the Bowl-a-Thon is for the participants to secure “pledges-per-pin.” Say someone donated 10 cents a pin to me. After my score of 200, they would have owed WNEP $20. Which, wouldn’t have been too shabby, if I’d had any confidence in my bowling ability. But since I was so god-awful last year, I didn’t even TRY to get per-pin pledges this year. I went with what I KNOW I’m good at.

I asked for per-BEER pledges.

4:30pm
Beers 1-2 are consumed in my house. I figured as long as I was drinking them on the same DAY as the Bowl-a-Thon, they count.

6:00pm
Beers 3-5 were enjoyed at a quaint German pub, with my buddy Tucker (also a WNEP company member) before we headed over to the bowling alley. Beers 3-5 were accompanied by much bitching about jobs and fathers.

7:45 pm
I eat 2 eggrolls on the walk over to Lincoln Square Lanes. I have not eaten anything else all day.

8:00pm
Bowl-A-Thon Commences. Beer 6 purchased.

After that…I kind of lost track of time. Beer 8 was free, I do remember that (God bless bartenders), and sometime around beer 9-10 I started calling my boyfriend after every shot “Becaush I’m sucsh a goooood bowlerrrrrrIloveyouuuuuOopsIshmyturnnowIgottagoIlovvvvveyou!”

This repeated after pretty much every shot. Yeah, I hate me too.

Midnight
Another successful WNEP Bowl-A-Thon was but a happy memory, as every other bowler in the company had gone home. The bowling alley was deserted, except for two of my compatriots as we discuss…I don’t know, philosophy or some shit, and I finish:

Beer 15.

—————–

For those thinking “15 beers over several hours…That’s not so bad. I’ve drank more than that!” well bully for you. I’m 4′10, female, and I hadn’t eaten anything ALL DAY except two egg rolls. I was completely shellacked.

But I did make a couple hundred bucks for a good cause, and I made about 300 double entendres involving “balls”, so all in all, good times.

Now I just need to find reasons for people to sponsor my drinking all the time.

I’m having a beer right now…Do I hear one dollar? One dollar?

Anybody?

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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My birthday celebrations were quite the success, I imagine.

I honestly have no idea, because I don’t remember anything after 9:45pm (I arrived at 8). But since my friends are still talking to me (though sighing a great deal more than usual), I’m assuming it was a smashing success. Part of this confidence comes from the amazing birthday present a local band bought me.

Though THAT caused its own difficulties…
[Read more →]

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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I had a great time at the Superbowl party. Tasty cheese dip was consumed and copious amounts of alcohol imbibed. I indiscriminately cheered for both football teams. My “zingers” outnumbered my “groaners.” Mostly.

(My favorite comment of the night, made after a beer commercial where a bird defends an attractive woman from the men hitting on her: “That’s a Cockblockatiel.”
Shut up. I thought I was funny)

After the conclusion of both the game and the special Simpson’s episode, I head home. I yell at a man begging people on the train for 20 bucks each. Seriously. What the fuck? He informs us that “If I don’t come up with 2400 bucks in the next 24 hours, they’re gonna kill me.” I respond “If I had 20 bucks, don’t you think I would have taken a cab?” “I’m just telling you, they’re gonna kill me.” “I guess you should have planned better then, huh?”

I’m a true humanitarian.

But karma’s a bitch. I stumble home, check my email and AOL IM to see if anybody cool’s online, then pass out at the stroke of midnight.

20 minutes later my phone rings.

“Booty call?” I perk up just enough to reach for the phone, don’t recognize the number, and blearily lay back to wait for the voicemail.

“Uh, Karla, this is ____ at the station. It’s 12:30 and you’re supposed to be on next…I guess I’ll just keep calling you, but um…I kinda need to take off here.”

You’ve got to be shitting me. I was apparently scheduled to work the overnight shift tonight. Not that I’d been informed of this, but I was indeed on the schedule. Christ. I contemplate ignoring the call, murdering my boss, and quitting my job.

Rent’s due this week. I pull on a pair of pants, rinse the beer film out of my mouth and grab a cab.

I’m half drunk, sleep deprived, and the hosts of the Superbowl party had a cat. I could ignore the allergic backlash if I was asleep, like I should be. As it is, I’m stuffed up and my lungs feel like they’re on fire. Positively en fuego. I still have 2 hours to go. I feel like death.

This is turning into quite the buzzkill.

Oh well, Mardi Gras on Tuesday, Chinese New Year Wednesday, and Thursday is my birthday. A full week of celebration, just for me? Hell, yes.

And if I get anymore late night calls from work…Well, damn if I didn’t just lose my cellphone. I’m ever so sorry.

Fuckers.

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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I’m going to a Superbowl party today. I stopped keeping track of football after the Bears broke my heart one too many times, so I really could give a shit about the game itself. But I’m always up for a social gathering, provided we’re gathering around booze, and I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be nice to make fun of the commercials with other people this year.

Side Note: One of the 6th grade teachers at my elementary school used to play for the New England Patriots. Serious. The kids in Mr. Smith’s class were always exceptionally well behaved. In fact, after he started teaching, we were ALL exceptionally well behaved. He was a really nice guy, but when the shadow of 6 feet, 2 inches and 250 pounds of pure ebony muscle suddenly looms over you…That spitball doesn’t seem quite as important.

Additional Side Note: I will tell this story at least 10 times during the course of the next day.

However, with 12 hours to kick-off, I’ve already managed to be the worst guest ever.

Yesterday I bought a case of beer to take to the party, and somehow a third of it ended up in my gullet. And there’s still 12 hours to go…

Guess what? I am totally bringing half a case of beer to a party. I’m justifying it by also bringing the crackers and french onion dip that I’d purchased for my own selfish consumption. These have not been tampered with, even though I had every intention of devouring them in a stomach wrenching fashion. But I will be generous. The host requested merely that you bring either something to eat or drink. But I shall produce both. The case may be missing a few bottles, but I am a good person, and a gracious guest.

12 hours, huh?

Do you think they’ll notice if I dig into the dip? Just a little bit?

Yeah, I know. I suck.

Just wait ’till I actually get there. People really need to learn not to invite me places.

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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“You don’t remember me?”

“Uh…”

“You seriously don’t remember me? I can’t believe this!”

“Hey, I mean, you know….(indistinct muttering)…Sorry dude.”

“WE TOOK A SHOWER TOGETHER.”

“Really? Well that’s cool, I guess. If you say so.”

————————————
The worst part…It was it was this guy.

For the record, his name is indeed Steve.

Christ, I think I’m retarded.

Tags: Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
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