Posted 3 years, 2 months ago late at night by oso
The following morning:
“Man, you look skinny”
“Well shit, I probably lost four pounds riding up here.”
“Dude, you probably lost four pounds on the side of Cindylu’s car.”
(Laughter from the peanut gallery)
Lesson learned: no binge drinking after a 53 mile bike ride. As kind as it was of Ramone to greet me with a cold beer and to buy me a surely overpriced shot of Jäger at the end of the night, the two combined I hold largely responsible for my demise.
I can tell you this with authority: if it is true what was reportedly said while my contracting stomach was liberating its contents all over the side of Cindylu’s car (”Don’t worry, that’s what little brothers are for”), then Cindylu’s little bro is one person I should avoid.
It would be one thing if I could claim Friday night as an isolated incident in an otherwise innocent career of consumption, but sadly it is just another shameful cairn on my historical trail of well-intentioned merrymaking. There was May of 2001, when I was about to take off for an 8 month trip around the world. Abogado and Prince Dutt would drive me to the airport in the morning and so we had a small get together the night before at 1669. I don’t really remember that, but I do remember being shaken awake near a small pool of what should have remained within. I puked 4 times on the flight. The poor businessman sitting next to me ringed the stewardess and asked to move seats. When Carolyn picked me up at JFK in New York the plan was to take the subway into the city. I was still nursing my water bottle like a udder. Then some 5-year-old kid with mini-dreadlocks tapped on me and asked for my water-bottle. I figured he wanted a swig so I gave it to him. He unzipped and relieved himself in my water bottle. That’s when Carolyn and I got off the jerky subway and took a cab to her apartment where I slept the rest of the afternoon.
There was also Istanbul, 2003. Abogado and I had been up until 3:30 a.m. dancing and drinking the night away in the various clubs of Taksim. Two hours later an airport shuttle would come by my hostel. I was flying in to Barcelona to meet up with Eric and then Ramone and Elijah. I was told, though I still don’t really believe it, that the guy working at the hostel came into my room shaking me away four separate times before I finally stumbled and mumbled my way into a van full of judgmental, young Italians. Arriving at the airport the Italians disappeared like whatever I had in my wallet this Friday night, and I was awestruck to see the seemingly endless line passing through the security baggage check just to get into the airport. I waited with everyone else, shuffling my backpack forward every minute or so and sitting on top of it when I started to feel dizzy. But then, literally 3 minutes before I was about to put my bags on the conveyor belt I started to feel bad. Real bad. The sweats. No stopping it.
Somehow I did make it through the security check, perspiring like a wild man, but once through on the other side, I looked for a cool corner of linoleum and immediately laid down, ready to die. Everything was spinning. Desperately I looked for a bathroom. But then … vomit on the floor of Istanbul International Airport.
You would think, five days later at the infamous Kabul Hostel in Barcelona, this shameful event would still be fresh in my mind. Yet somehow, in the upper entrails of Europe’s second most-well-known party hostel (Flying Pig is of course first), where an international smorgasboard of scruffy travelers was listening to bad techno, a young German kid with a squeaky voice convinced me to take a shot of absinthe. And then another. This was after the usual night’s drinking of Sangria in the downstairs lobby.
It was a shame because I had successfully rallied the troops (including Mila from Utrecht) to go to an “erotica festival” being held in town, but I never even made it out of the hostel. And then around three in the morning, my dear friend Eric (now off to Taiwan for pottery grad school, who knew! and bon voyage my man) felt the beginnings of a sangria-colored warm waterfall descending from the top bunk. We’re talking about a vast quantity. All over his face. Before he even knew what hit him.
One of those things that a lifetime of apologies will never make up for.
But before you get the wrong idea about my drinking habits, let me say this. As my friends often complain about, I go out a hell of a lot less than just about anyone else I know. The fact that I do drink so little is probably largely responsible for the embarrassing stories I’ve amassed from when I do. Just about any night, I’d much rather have green tea and play a game of chess than get belligerent in some swanky Santa Monica hotel. But as I was reminded on Saturday morning as the five of us - friends for about 10 years now - woke up again hung-over and giggling, sometimes even the worst hand-trembling, brain-clouded, IQ lowering hangovers are worth the nights that produced them and the hazy memories which will spark knee slapping for decades to come. Here’s to me and my sloppy friends.
And Cindylu’s little brother.
Funny pictures and a funny video coming soon. Today’s download is Si la photo est bonne (right click, save as) by Barbara.
read all the way and STILL laughing at the five your hold peeing in your bottle.
Who needs to drink when your stories are enough to make one vomit?
Note to self: stay away from Oso when he has been drinking - has a tendency to regurgitate. And never, repeat never, sleep in the bottom bunk under him.
Thanks for the heads up.
Holy shit, Oso, I don’t think you and I should drink. We’re eerily the same. *cringe*
Don’t worry about it - we all have our stories. God knows I do. I’m anxiously awaiting cindylu’s comment to this post…
Hmm, will there be a book of Oso’s Classic RALPH (vomit) Moments? Maybe you can add a special section to your current novel - Flatulence is Bliss?
First off, it was very nice meeting Abogado and Bobbo. I also saw Raman/Ramone and his lovely sister again that night. I agree that the place was a little too LA scene-ish for my taste, but a good time was had.
Second, I saw and heard a couple of disgusting things that night. I think I consider myself lucky because Oso vomited outside of my car, Bobbo did not have the rear passenger window down (good thinking, Bobbo), and I never got any of Oso’s dinner and drinks on my face. I stopped at a gas station near my apartment for a couple of necessary supplies, including paper towels. The attendant called me ghetto for cleaning the side of my car with a squeegie, but it had to be done. Neither little nor big brother has washed my car, but no one can notice what Oso left behind.
Cleaning up vomit tied for disgusting aspect of the night. Oso’s competition? The guy in line behind me who asked his date “do you have any Persian in you?” Confused date: “no.” Game-less guy: “would you like some?”
I’ve traveled by air with a hangover before too and it really, really sucked. People still tell stories about my last night in New York about 3 years ago. I don’t remember most of the night, but do know that a new rule came up that night: Cindylu gets two.
Some photos of Oso and friends post shot of Jager and too many beers and not enough bananas.
EM,
I think my response was “bro, that ain’t cool,” but neither the 5-year-old nor his distracted mother seemed to care.
xolo,
All I have to do is tell that story and I always get the bottom bunks at hostels. Highly recommended tactic.
EMC,
We should get trashed at HP’s one of these days and let him clean it all up.
Bobbo,
Yes you do. And like a few incidents I left out here, many of your’s are on videotape. I’m waiting for your confirmation hearings before I blackmail you.
Julissa,
Point taken. This weblog is becoming consumed by what I can’t seem to keep in.
Cindylu,
Thanks for coming out. I think your blogger meetup idea is a smash. I promise to behave myself next time.
i have to unfortunately admit that i was in a college fraternity. this post reminded me of many nights back then. many of the same outcomes (including how did i get that black eye and big knot on my head???) though in much less exotic locales.
hey .. perhaps a few bloggers can get together at the end of this month. I shall be in your area and it would be fun to meet a few of the infamous folks i’ve grown to know some what.
Fortunately for me, I usually recognize that sparkle in your eye shortly before the moment of truth and have ample time to escape to the other car/bunk bed. Funny funny stuff.
This post is hilarious, I was falling off of my chair laughing.
Note to self: Anytime you drink with Oso, make him ride his bike home.
Os: HP would have a hard ass time cleaning up the mugrero we’d make. Nothing beats being really drunk in New Orleans, Las Vegas or even Austin at 11 am and spending the entire day stumbling around the city wondering, “What was it I was doing?”
HP: It’s bad enough I have a hard time riding bikes already. I can’t imagine being tanked and balancing my bony culo on one of those things. I prefer to walk home.
oso, just reading your post made me feel queasy and hungover. i woke up with my face in a pool of vomit once too.
cindylu, you’re lucky oso blew chunks outside the car ’cause you can never ever ever get that smell out of a car.
EMC: Nah bro, I’d have to pay for a taxi for you or something, I don’t know what the neighbors would think seeing you walk around at night drunk, you know, with the hair and all. LOL J/K
Cindylu, Irasali brings up a good point, imagine if Bobbo had rolled down his window and all your stuffed animals in the back of your car would have been splattered with Oso’s earlier meal that day. The poor little critters would have had to be retired or something, cuz the smell would have definitely never completely been removed.
This is too funny!!! Nobody took pictures?!? I say Cindylu should draw a picture of Oso barfing. By the way is the Cindylu/HP sponsored fiesta still on? I got 2 bottles of Cazadores and 1 bottle of Gusano Rojo ready.
Myke,
You were in a fraternity? Amazing.
Abo,
Wait, you mean you weren’t in the car with us?
HP,
If I drank Bud Light like you bro, I could put down 20 and still be fine.
EMC,
I don’t think I’d like to be drunk in New Orleans at 11 a.m.
Irasali,
“blow chucks” - I hate that phrase. Maybe posts like this are should be called “blogging chunks” though.
Gustavo,
I’m waiting for Dev to give me the pictures. Definitely worth checking back for.
I thought briefly about taking a picture of my car post-Oso losing it, but that was just gross and the next morning I’d delete it. There are pictures of Oso looking a little red- and shiny-faced.
Found this entry via cindy and i thought it was hilarious.
I only have a couple of really bad drunken stories to tell, but neither one compares to yours!
[...] Last night I threw up on someone. He was really understanding about the whole thing, but I still felt extremely embarrassed and rather bad about the mess I made. If we need to talk about what’s more gross, I think I’d beat out all of Oso’s tales of alcohol-induced vomiting… even the time he threw up on his friend sleeping in the bunk below him and definitely worse than blowing chunks on my car. The whole mess got me thinking about my most embarrassing moments and put me in a High Fidelity mood. [...]
[...] Kau Boy is better known on this weblog as the unlucky guy on the bottom bunk, but he also happens to be the best American potter in all of Taiwan. According to me anyway. His latest batch of flickr photos is the first peek into Eric’s new Taiwan life for those of us he left behind. I love flickr. [...]
oso, just reading your post made me feel queasy and hungover. i woke up with my face in a pool of vomit once too.