Mr. Pukeypants

I don't believe it. I threw up this morning.

I never throw up from drinking. At least, not since High School. I just don't puke.

Water is wet.

The sky is blue.

Shawn doesn't puke.

Until today, that is.

Where to begin? Last night QUICK KILL FORMULA played a gig at Dingbatz. We went on around 10pm- barely enough time for me to suck back a few ratty tap beers (Seriously, they were awful-the Bud was skunked, and the Coors tasted like Satan's ball sweat-and I would know...) and a couple shots of SoCo. The set went great, we played our asses off. The crowd was responsive and all that good shit. I fucked up my right hand and wrist during the set, though. I was banging away on my bass (as usual) and brought my hand down really hard and at a weird angle on the bridge. Ouch. My entire hand and forearm actually went numb for a few seconds. I have a big ol' Rock Bruise on my wrist, and my hand is all cramped up and sore. Good stuff.

After our set I smoked a joint with a few people, and headed, stoned and mellow, to The B.A.G. Art was filling in for me this week, and I knew it was going to be a good time. It was. It's a great feeling when you walk into a place and everyone there is happy to see you, coming over to say hello and handing you drinks. I felt loved. Awwww.... When I walked in a Rockabilly trio was playing. The guitarist had a hollow body Gretsch, and the bassist was playing an upright! They were awesome. I walked over to talk to the bassist after their set. I was explaining to him that I play bass, as well, and how I've always wanted to buy an upright, but they're really expensive, and all that...hoping that he would let me try out his bass for a song or two. That didn't happen. I now realize that it was probably because I looked like a crazy hick in my cammo Mountain Rest t-shirt. My eyes were all red from the weed, and I had a general air of menace swirling about me. Those QKF gigs do that to me. Plus, I had put back around three shots and two beers in the fifteen minutes I had been there, and was whoopin' and hollerin' during their set. If I didn't know me, I'd scare myself sometimes.

Anyway, there was more drinking and carrying on. Some random old guy gave me ten bucks because he wanted to hear some blues and I got up to play Rob's guitar on "Hey Joe." I knocked that fucking thing so far out of tune...sorry, Trout. I had a great time playing guitar, though. I recently got an offer to play electric guitar and sing with a band every Sunday evening in West Milford. I might take them up on it.

I also got to play drums for a bit, which is always awesome. I loves me some drums. I've been playing a lot at home lately (great stress reliever), and my chops are pretty good. James just bought a new double kick pedal, and he's going to let me borrow his old one, so I can work on my double bass skills. Hooray for James!

Of course, I played a bit of bass, as well. I just don't seem to remember it. Did I mention the drinking? I don't remember leaving The B.A.G, but I do recall getting a couple of slices from Junior's on the way home. Because the only thing smarter than driving drunk is driving drunk while trying to eat pizza. (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention-I hadn't eaten since 2pm that day. I just kind of skipped dinner. I haven't had much of an appetite lately. Noelle thinks it's a sign of me moving to the next stage of Severe Alcoholism. Apparently, some of them pretty much forsake solid food, or something. Whatever. I'm Just Not Hungry.) I was so hammered when I got home that I went to bed, instead of my usual ritual of drinking bourbon while checking out The Internet, and trying to not click on The Ex's blog.

And now- the puking.

I woke up early and couldn't easily fall back asleep. My mind was fucking with me (which is, apparently, my mind's favourite new hobby) and ruining my dreams. I guess it's pissed that I'm slowly destroying it with drugs and alcohol, so it takes every chance it gets to strike back. Stupid brain.

When I finally got up for work I felt okay. I was a little tired, and felt slightly feverish, but not the least bit hungover. I popped in some GWAR (the best getting-ready-for-work music EVER), and got dressed. All was (relatively) well. Then, halfway through brushing my teeth (or toofus, as I like to call 'em) I puked. I felt it come up, and I held it in my mouth just long enough to make it to the toilet. Mostly.

Let me tell you, I had completely forgotten what it's like to throw up. The burning throat, the watering eyes, the cramping stomach, the convulsions, the smell... It was awesome. My first thought (aside from "What the fuck? I never puke!") was "Oh my God, I'm pregnant. It's morning sickness, and I'm pregnant." Then I realized how ridiculous that idea was. I mean, I just got my period, like, last week.

There I was, down on one knee, toothbrush still in hand, puking, dry heaving, dribbling spit, vomit, and toothpaste from my mouth, and laughing. Yes, my friends, I was laughing. I have no idea why, either. I think I may be insane. Also, between heaves, I was singing "Carousel" by Mr. Bungle. There's a part in that song about puking, you're either familiar with it or not...

On to the puke itself...it was glorious. It consisted of mainly beer, bourbon, SoCo, vodka (thanks for that, Char), Jagerbombs, Powerade (the red kind), and pizza. Oh, the wondrous colors, unlike anything I've ever seen. I swear, you could open up the big box of Crayolas, and never find these colors. And The Smell (I capitalized that because it was like an entity unto itself). The Smell was like...words fail me. It was solid. Three-dimensional. It had weight. It was crushing and oppressive. Like our Government. Only smellier.

I finally finished puking, brushed my teeth (again) and headed out the door to work. It was only after I got in my car and drove away that I noticed the wet spot on the knee of my jeans...

I had kneeled in some puke. Ick. I guess my aim was a bit off during my mad dash to the toilet. I was already late for work (Fridays are extremely busy), and had no time to turn around and change my pants. I know, I know, it's gross. Oh what fun to work all day, smelling my own puke. Joyous. I was resplendent in my stinky, stained britches.

I am Mr. Pukeypants.