In which Megarita is struck dumb

I went to a show last night. I rarely ever do this anymore, simply because there aren't that many bands who I want to see that I can afford to see! Thankfully I have friends who think of me and think "even Megarita can get her ass in gear for this." So out I went on a Saturday night to see Vic Chesnutt.

Vic was a staple of the Woof U (aka Athens, GA) music scene. He was paralyzed from the waist down in a car accident when he was around 20, and his recording career follows this event. He's a crazy looking guy with an amazing soulful voice. I never really appreciated him when I was in Athens, but it was great to see him again and hear that scolding yelp out of him. He was in fine voice, but in a dirgy mood, if that's even a word. It was so drab and draining, his music, that I ended up bailing at 12:30. Also, I felt that I'd already seen the best thing that night: his opening act:

His niece, Liz Durrett.

We had seen the new band come up on the monitors in the bar next to the club (GREAT FEATURE!) and seen Vic wheel onstage, so we moved inside, Sweetwater 420s in hand. [Quick beer aside: one of the happiest discoveries of moving to GA has been the Sweetwater Brewing company. Their 420 is cheap and truly excellent. So is their summer hummer. I'm so proud to buy local and actually love drinking it.] Then this woman started singing, and her voice made the entire place go totally silent. I've never seen this happen before at a club. There's alway some putz yakking about something. Sometimes the putz is me.

This time there was stunned silence. The girl couldn't be more than 20, and the voice that came out of her mouth seemed effortless. My little group of friends all turned to one another and tried to figure out an analogue:

"Neko Case?"
"Jenny Lewis?"
"Momentary Academic?"
"Catpower!"
"Catpower. She's Catpower with more professionalism and more edge."*
"I want her to do a voice-over for my life."
"I need her to sing me to sleep."
"Damn, I'm getting the CD. Who is this girl?"

*With Apologies to poor Chan, but damn, woman, you've burned us all on tour at one time or another! Love The Greatest, though! Call me?

We sat through her set completely blissed out. Her last song was the best of all, but it's not even released yet. You could have heard a pin drop as she was finished. It's called something like "Unafraid" or "Unashamed."' Even the bartender stopped tossing bottles and the CD sales girl stopped yakking to people. There was total respect in that tiny club. I've got the CD on now, and even though she doesn't have the backing band, she's still damn incredible.

This is no music blog, but that's my 2 cents. I feel bad that I had to bail on Vic, but after you've heard that voice, it was hard to hear dirges at 1 am. Went home, and slept until noon. Being cool is exhausting, honey bunnies.

Hills Like Pink Elephants

or, what happens when you throw a Belgian Ale Party

In a hilarious turn of events, all the women I invited to my little gathering ditched their husbands and boyfriends and we had ourselves a hen party. A Belgian hen party. A Belgian hen party with 7 different types of Belgian beers.

Actual Belgian Hen

We started with Chimay, but then happily hurtled into things with names like Corsendonk, Dragon Cul (or something), and other beers that, as the night wore on, began being referred to as "pretty bottle kind" or "that one that the nuns made."

It was glorious. It was a lot of high alcohol content beer. We didn't even crack the Piraat after I realized the alcohol content was over 13%. I'll just spring that on people's parties this fall.

There was an aftermath. I had deliberately had the gathering on a Sunday to both Stick it to the Man and His Sunday Blue Laws and also to Keep People From Drinking Themselves to Death. So, the laydees left around 11 pm, hopefully ok to drive. God knows I wasn't. I went into autopilot, cleaning up the (if I do say so myself) glorious cheese platter, the bottles, the variety of glasses I pressed into service since I own neither chalices nor tulip glasses, and so on.

After handwashing my prettier glasses, things got a little hazy. I awoke from my haze some time later, I think, in a rather startling condition.

I was:

1. Hamstered. This is a wonderful term my friend uses to describe "the land beyond hammered." Thankfully, because we'd been imbibing Belgian, my drunkenness was not your typical slurred speech, sloppy drunkenness. It was the warm feeling that some have described in this space as Chimay-like. It makes you look good, it makes your friends look better. I wanted to hug Belgium. I wanted to kiss a trappist, or at least embrace him heartily.

Because I had been mixing the Belgians, though, I felt a little strange. It's a lot of weird beers to put in your body. And it does unfortunate things to your body. Which might explain why I was . . .

2. Skirtless. Yes, once again I managed to wriggle out of my clothes without being aware of it. Apparently I could no longer bear to be confined by my little linen skirt, slip, or the strapless bra I was wearing beneath my architecturally-complex fuscia top. Thankfully, these items were scattered around me, so there was no confusion on where I'd been in this state. The confusion was better directed at the TV, which was playing . . .

3. CSI Miami. It was late, so I guess this is what comes on after hours on a Sunday. I love these stupid shows, though, and I find that redheaded man's acting too hilarious to miss, so I watched a bit while drinking gallons of water. Then I discovered my phone, which was chirping with several text messages. And this picture.

Poorly lit, bad quality . . . obviously my work. And my brick walls.

I seem to have drunk texted a number of people. And I am sorry. A little. But the picture opens up other possibilities.

Analysis/Best Guess: After keeping myself coherent while my guests were here, I let myself go after they left, and settled on the couch with the last splash of the Delirium, which won "best beer" at our gathering, for those keeping score at home. I obviously passed my threshold or capacity at this point and was sent into an altered state of some kind. The pink ones came for me, and carried me away in their pink trunks. Then, given my state of dishabille, they apparently had their way with me. They returned me, thus ravished, to the couch, where they turned on CSI Miami so that Horatio could look out for me. I awoke at some point with a vague memory of my experience, and took a picture of the empty bottle as a way to point a finger of accusation at the so innocent seeming pigmentally-challenged pachyderms.

That, or it was a better party than I thought.

Two Wrongs DO Make a Right!

Or, how Megarita's semi-toxic decision making finally pays off, thereby guaranteeing a lifetime of poor decision making.

I really, really needed to stir up some trouble this week, so I called Poisonous Playmate numero uno on Thursday and said, "I'll be at your house by 9. Be ready." Away I sailed, leaving behind papers in need of grading, students in need of assistance, and various work-related responsibilities that have been, of late, leaving me in need of some serious fetal-positioned thumb-sucking.

The night started off normally enough--a few Hoegaardens (although not with an orange slice this time--the bar near my house kept serving me Blue Moons with slice of orange during the Final Four, leading my friends and I to ponder what might be the most inappropriate citrus/beer combo. I think the final choice involved a grapefruit, unsliced)--a few more, a few inadvertant cigs, and some hilarious conversations.

The best of the latter involved a bouncer who shares a name with a football team. We'll call him Raven for now. He was talking to some other friends of mine while I debated the relative worth of Venture Brothers versus Aqua Teen with a young man who had a mohawk and something to prove. At some point the big boy asked who I was and my sassy friends said, "that's Megarita. She's a doctor!" He laughed and asked, "in what?" They said, "ask her," and so he interrupted my truly compelling impression of some cartoon character or another, and I told him I worked in renaissance stuff.

His eyes got really big, and he said, "that's the hottest thing I've ever heard."

This is not the usual response to what I do, needless to say. I laughed really hard, and then we sat down to chat for a while. Turns out the boy's got brains. At one point he said, "I bet you didn't expect a guy who looks like me to have gone to an Ivy League school." He wasn't wrong. I was ashamed. After a few SoC0 and Lime shots, we were all fast friends and he had gotten on his knees to ask me to marry him. Excellent evening.

Fast forward to the next day, when I was hosting a lecture series at work. It was a brown bag, so we bring our lunches. Only I couldn't bring the bloody mary and cheeseburger I really needed. I felt as though I was going to barf the entire time. I had to resist putting my sunglasses on inside. I was not at my Megarita Best. Worse, I knew an old pal of mine was coming to stay that night. Damn. More drinking. I wasn't sure I could survive. My liver said no, but my heart said yes. (note to self: possible memoir title)

And then my bad choices somehow paid off. I answered the door to my pal, we settled in for a series of gin and tonics (and by series I mean a lot), and suddenly, my hangover was gone. Seems that the proper assortment of hors d'oeuvres and gin are actually the equivalent of a cheeseburger for curing a hangover. Even better? I feel great today. Sure, I'm not super psyched about going out to play tennis when it's in the 40s, but I'm not laid up either.

So, feeling bad from drinking? Name your cures, or take my advice and simply drink more and watch how everything works out just fine. Trust me, people. I'm a doctor.