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Tuesday, April 27, 2010

The Bangover

Weier Not Amused

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So you go out on a Saturday night. Maybe you gel up your ‘do real nice or put on your shiny, dancing shoes. I don’t really know. It’s your Saturday night.

So you’re still all like, “I’m going to see some music.” But what kind of music, son? Smooth jazz? A screaming girl with a guitar and a mohawk? Polka, yeah hey? None of the above. You are going to see a rock show.

You may be a bit apprehensive. “What if the other kids don’t like me?” Don’t worry. Everybody is there for one purpose: to crank the dial up to maximum and burn that mother down. It turns out you love it. Let your hair down and let your freak flag fly, my little rock friend. Bang it out. Punch somebody in the back of the head if the music moves you in that direction. Just make sure the person knows it was the music and not because he slept with your sister. People are generally understanding when acts of violence are done in the name of rock.

The show is over. You feel great! Nothing can touch you in your rock force field. Drink some whiskey. Smoke your funny smelling cigarettes. Rejoice in the victory of a psychedelic Saturday. As you collapse in your bed—sounds of face-melting solos all up in your head—you travel to sleepy time land and dream of banging it out every night. What the hell? It’s rock and roll, baby.

Now it’s Sunday morning. The birds are chirping.

“Hey, what did you do last night?”

“Awwww man, I got so schwasty.”

Side note: Birds love to get drunk when nobody is watching. Birds are alcoholics.

It’s 9 a.m., and you wake up for no reason. With your eyes barely open, you already know something is awry. Your neck won’t move. Your arms ache. Your noggin feels like Louie Anderson sat on it. Don’t panic. You, my friend, have a bangover.

Bangover: n. Disagreeable physical effects following heavy consumption of rock music, typically caused by repeated thrusting of the head up and down.

This is not to be confused with a hangover. Two very different experiences. A hangover usually consists of picking your bra and dignity off the floor while holding back vomit, popping some headache candy and shoveling McDonald’s in your gullet.

There is nothing known to man that will cure a bangover. It’s like a common cold or herpes.

But what about Advil or Tylenol? Ha! I laugh in your face. Do you really think medicine created by mere mortals will extinguish the fire ignited by the rock gods? No, seriously? Do you? ‘Cause you are wrong.

Ah, I see you are reaching for an ice pack. Nice try. A frozen tauntaun testicle on Hoth wouldn’t numb the searing pain when your roommate wakes up and decides it’s talk-as-loud-as-you-can day. You must deal with the drum solo from that song you heard last night on repeat.

All you can do is roll with it. Find something to take your mind off it. Do a challenging crossword puzzle, perhaps. There is never a wrong day to beef up your Barbara Streisand discography. How do you feel when I throw the words “Matlock marathon” out there?

It will all be over soon. You will swear off shows forever knowing full well you will totally be right back where you started as soon as the first person asks you if you feel like getting your ass kicked and your face melted off.