Wang Dang Sweet Yin Yang

Ah yes, balance.

The yin and yang.

Dark and light.

"What goes up...," and all that.

Who was it that said "In all things, moderation."?

Some dead guy, prolly.

I've always had a problem with that "moderation" thing. Very little impulse control. It's true. Ask anybody.

I've also always been amazed at my body's ability to bounce back quickly and efficiently from almost any and all forms of physical, chemical, mental, and spiritual abuse. I am Solid. In fact, just two Saturdays ago, on Lincoln Park Day, I drank for almost sixteen hours. SIXTEEN HOURS. I had a Sparks at 11:30am, then walked uptown where I met up with some friends at The Wexford, where we drank beer and shots of Wild Turkey while playing billiards and eating sausage and pepper heroes until 7pm. I got home, took a shower, then headed to The BAG, where I drank more beer, more bourbon, and even a few Jagerbombs until 2am. I got a lift home (I may be a drunk, but I'm not stupid, ya know) and had another Sparks and even perhaps one last nip of Turkey (I can't quite recall).

Upon waking the next day, I felt okay. Not spectacular, mind you, but certainly not hungover. Just a bit...logy, perhaps. The point being, I should've been one seriously hurtin' puppy, but I was not. I am a Drinking Machine. I am a Force of Nature.

Or so I thought.

But, just as the rain, one tiny drop at a time, eventually erodes even the largest boulder, so has my incessant self-abuse recently brought me low.

I am ill.

Icky, sickly, smelly, sweating-through-the-sheets ill.

Ill enough that my no-insurance-having-ass actually went to the doctor yesterday (Monday).

All was well Friday night, and the usual (and some not-so-usual) shenanigans were had. I woke up Saturday feeling like some one had replaced my internal organs with a combination of fiberglass insulation, steel wool, Drano, and rabid badgers. And rabid badger crap. The fever, aches and pains, and squirrelly bowels (good blues name-Mister Squirrelly Bowels) were bad enough, but the throat was worse. I knew immediately that it was Strep.

I get Strep once a year, traditionally in the Spring. I thought I had gotten lucky this year and dodged it, but I should know by now that The Universe is against me. Stupid Universe. Yeah, so, the throat was bad. Real bad. Couldn't swallow, could barely speak (and the World rejoiced in the silence, ha ha). Best of all, I had a gig that night in Brooklyn with Dirty Jersey.

No, I shan't explain Dirty Jersey to you here, in this blog, on this day. That nonsense deserves a blog all its own. Stay tuned...

I was very close to ditching the gig

[Yeah, I felt that sick- I NEVER ditch a gig. Sheeit, I played a gig one day after dislocating my left shoulder. I played another gig with second-degree burns on my right hand. I played a gig a few days after getting my knee knocked out of its proper place in my leg during a fight. I even played a gig on my one-year anniversary with a lass once. Long story... The point being- I don't ditch gigs]

when The Bachman came to the rescue. He was willing to switch from guitar to bass for the night to cover for me, leaving all the guitar parts to The Machine. Very cool. I almost accepted. I instead decided to drink half a bottle of Dayquil (which The Bachman brought over for me, along with some hot tea-what a guy) and soldier on.

I made it through the show. I'm not sure how, especially since Lee goaded me into singing both "Bulls On Parade" and "Killing In The Name Of..." even though my throat was full of razors. You owe me, Leonardo. Ya bastid. Got paid, got home (Bachman drove-what a guy) around 5am and passed the fuck out, hoping I would feel better on Sunday.

No dice.

Sunday was awful, just awful. I took any and all medications I could find in this empty house I haunt. I swallowed a Comtrex. I drank the rest of the Dayquil. I then took one Tylenol, two Advils, and chased them with some Nyquil Cough syrup. Nothing was helping. I called my job and told them I would be out on Monday. They were thrilled. I passed the fuck out, hoping I would feel better on Monday.

Again, no dice.

I awoke sometime Monday from a series of disturbing fever-induced nightmares to discover I had sweat so very much in the night. So much that my sheets, comforter, and mattress pad were soaked. I was completely dehydrated, yet able to painfully squeeze only the slightest bit of moisture down my ravaged gullet. At this point, my throat was even worse than the previous day, my fever was rising, I was dry as a bone, and I hadn't eaten since Saturday evening. Not good.

I was considering calling a doctor to schedule an appointment, but that simple task was beyond my abilities. I couldn't quite seem to figure out how to use the phonebook (did I mention the high fever?) and I kept falling back asleep at the most inopportune moments. I had pretty much decided that I was going to die, and welcomed The Reaper's cold embrace. Or something Goth like that.

Lucky for me, that evening my Mother stopped in to say hello, pick up her mail, and make sure I hadn't yet turned her house into a wretched hive of scum and villainy (I'm not doing that until next year). When she saw what a wretched state her only son was in, she freaked and dragged (quite literally) me to the car so I could see a doctor and get some antibiotics. We went to this little place in Wayne that accepts walk-ins until 9pm. We got there around 7pm and sat there for an hour. An hour in which my feverish, tortured psyche was subjected to back-to-back episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond." I had never seen that show before, and I pray to all of the Gods ever imagined that I never come across it again. Horrible. Insipid. Ghastly. I, sir, do not love Raymond.

By the time I got to see the doctor, I was miserable. Until I actually saw the doctor. She was Hot. Its amazing how quickly your mood changes when your doctor is Hot. There I was, unshaven, disheveled, probably a bit smelly, yet still cracking jokes and trying to flirt with Hot Doc. I'm sure she was really turned on. Oh yeah. I'm a sexy, smelly man. It was, indeed, Strep, along with a nice 101% fever. Lucky me.

So, I got my 'scrip (Amoxicillin rocks my world) and went to Shop-Rite to fill it, and to stock up on soup (chicken noodle, motherfucker- Chicken Noodle!), Vitamin Water, Advil (I was instructed to take four pills three times a day-seems excessive-maybe Hot Doc knows something she isn't telling me?), and salt. Yes, salt. I was also instructed by Hot Doc to gargle with salt water. Sounds archaic, I know, but she assured me that it helps. And I trust Hot Doc more than I've ever trusted anyone in my life. I love you, Hot Doc.

Ahem. So it is Tuesday night as I write this, and I feel much better already. I'm back to work tomorrow because they're short-handed. Like midgets. Get it? I'd rather have one more day off to rest up since I'm gigging every night from Wednesday through Saturday, but it is not to be. Plus, Wednesday is payday at work, and Daddy needs him some comic books.

Here's the point:

[Yes, all of that was a set-up, a prologue, an intro, even. I write like I talk-incessantly and without an immediately obvious point]

I can't drink for eight more days. I have to take the antibiotics for ten days, and you can't drink alcohol during that time because it renders the medication useless.

Or so I thought.

I did a little research on the ol' Intarwub ("You're surfing on it now!"), and it seems that the above is a bit of a myth.

It turns out that that only counts for certain types of antibiotics, and Amoxicillin isn't one of them. Amoxicillin does, indeed, rock my world.

As does the Intarwub.

Now, this doesn't mean that I'm going to just jump right back in to the deep end of the bourbon pool. I do need to slow it down for a bit, just to be safe. I'm not completely self-destructive. I am glad, however, that I can at least have a few beers and/or shots at the upcoming gigs, because without the sex and drugs, Rock and Roll is just music.


God bless you, Amoxicillin!


God bless you, Intarwub!


And God bless you, Hot Doc!



Marry me.