Everything has been going along pretty well for me. I just tossed out my empty can of Clean Linen bathroom spray and am now using Country Garden. It’s so much better having the bathroom smell like a tomato patch than a towel. I’m still pretty excited.
So, after this deodorizer excitement, I’m sitting out on the couch eating a no-sugar-added Fudgsicle, watching the tube and playing online Scrabble with someone from Newfoundland, and my dog Hadley starts to retch a little. I offer him a bite of my Popsicle thing, even though I know dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate because I am a what? A rebel. And a non-thinking pet owner.
But he doesn’t even want it. He’s too busy heaving his guts out on the rug. I mean, he was doing some serious Airedale hurling, baby. Mixed in with the hurl-goo were blades of grass and a Reese’s Pieces wrapper and what looked like a chicken foot. I think he made the right decision to hurl it.
And, of course, that reminded me of three of the favorite throwing-up experiences I’ve had over the past 30 years or so. And because I live to share things with you readers and readerettes, I am about to share my empty stomach with you. Warning! If you are about to eat lunch, that would be a mistake. Unless you want a fourth throw-up story of your own.
My first upchuck memory happened in the early ’60s. I was a student at Humboldt State College (where the men were men, and so were the women. I know I’ve said that before, but I just love repeating it.) I was attending a little party just off campus. The primary goal of this party was to drink as many cans of Brew 102 beer as you could and then take a shot of bourbon after each beer and then consume some Corn Nuts and baked beans and PB&J sandwiches and then see who could light the longest tightly pulled-skivvies-over-your-buttocks red rocket. Oh, the fun we had. I’m just glad we could pass these achievements on to the younger generation.
Anyway, around midnight I didn’t feel too good. I don’t know why. And I walked out onto the deck to get some fresh air and maybe survive the night. Well, this deck was on the fourth floor of the house we were in. Pretty high. Kind of like a certain columnist.
As I stood there, holding the rail, I knew I could not keep the evening’s refreshments down. And I also knew I could not make it to the bathroom or a sink or a pan or a bag or a hat. So I stuck my head over the railing and let her fly.
Wow. I can still see the chunks of spaghetti and meatballs and nuts in this foamy glob of beer and saliva just drifting down through the cool night air. It was like it was in slow motion. A Fellini movie. Each chunk of gunk was slightly separating as it fell toward the parking lot. And then it hit with a fourth-floor splat and it just missed a couple who were face-sucking. And I’ll never forget what they said. “Let’s check out some other party.”
About seven years later — but not seven years smarter — I was at a party with my ex-wife, who shall remain nameless because of my gallantry, good judgment and the provisions of the restraining order. I was working at the Army Corps of Engineers and they were having a little party for all of us to get to know each other at some guy’s house.
There were about 20 of us there, and we were all getting, uh, as they say in the construction industry, plastered. Everyone was pretty damn happy if your definition of happy is “can’t walk.” At some point in the evening’s proceedings, we all gathered in a big circle. I don’t remember why we were in this circle. People would go out into the middle and do something and then return. Well, when it was my turn, I went out into the middle of the circle and did something, too. I barfed.
Even in my condition, I could tell that this was not well-received. Especially by the hostess of the party. I remember her husband telling her that he didn’t know who I was and I would never be invited back. And then he took the kitchen knife away from her.
The last thing I remember was being carried into the bedroom where they put all the guests’ coats and they plopped me right in the middle of all those big coats and jackets and scarves. It was actually pretty comfy. I felt all snug and warm and loved as I wiped my face on a really soft chinchilla coat collar. (Furs were OK back then.)
Finally, on my little trip down vomitory lane, I remember back in the ’70s I spent a pleasant evening at The Catacombs, a cool little Mexican bar in downtown Los Angeles. The place was actually underground and it was dark and damp and seedy. Me and my other ink-stained wretch compadres would go there after putting out an edition of the paper. They owed us money for ad space and we took that out in giant platters of guacamole de huachucas and Coronas.
Four of us were sitting there in a dark leather booth and one of the young ladies we were hoping to have meaningful and fulfilling sexual intercourse with later was getting, as they say in the trucking industry, pretty loaded.
My potential love partner of the opposite sex turned towards me, looked at me with her big brown eyes, and she fluttered them a few feminine flutters like they did back then, and she tried to smile, but instead of smiling she projectile vomited her earlier consumed taco plate which was loosely held together by warm cerveza and female spittle. Or maybe it was warm spittle and female cerveza. I don’t know. But it was definitely memorable. And it was all over my chest and my shirt and my psyche. And if I knew the Spanish word for traumatized, I would relate that to you now.
Well, I hope you all have enjoyed our little trip down upchuck lane. Maybe we can meet again next week and I’ll tell you how I had my warts removed.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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