Why the hell am I up so early? It’s 8:35 in the AM. On the weekend, this time is reserved strictly for church-goers and flight attendants; no one in their right mind actually wakes up around now just for no reason. Oh yeah, except me.
You see, I have a pre-existing condition called “cantsleepwhilestilldrunkitis” which I’ve heard is a pretty common ailment, but never actually seen in practice. The problem isn’t that falling asleep the first time is hard, provided you have a wall or other furniture to hang on to to make the world stop spinning around you. The problem arises sometime in the morning when the sun starts to break through the window and it hits your eyelids that don’t seem content to just stay closed. They widen to see what’s going on, and since once you’re awake, it’s damn near impossible to fall back asleep, you curse them roughly eight or nine times and hastily wake up, all the while wishing you had a roll of duct tape that you could threaten them with next time.
So that party last night. From what I remember, totally awesome. Unfortunately that “remember” part encompasses less than 10 minutes of there-time, so who freakin’ knows. It sounds lame, but I went as a washed out rocker (minus the flour around the nostrils as we couldn’t find any anywhere) complete with guitar and sign taped to said guitar that said “WILL SING FOR BOOZE”. Oh sign, how I hate you (that stupid little sign got me in a wee bit of trouble). I didn’t get in any fights, or arguments or anything like that; my hate comes from the fact that after I played my first song (mere seconds after I got there, status: sober) I was being asked to play more and more which meant that my brain, stupidly wanting to stick by the mantra of my costume, was slowly but surely filling up with fluid.
After saying goodbye to Tom and Michelle (the party was dual purpose: hallowe’en and Tom and Michelle’s “leaving the island party”), I walked around outside for a while mingling with everyone (pretty much everyone there worked for ACT, and I had met almost all of them previously, so I was on a mission to see how many names I could remember). I talked with Mark for a while (who was superbly dressed/acted like Napoleon Dynamite; even if I did hate the movie, he at least made the character likeable) and his wife (who was dressed up as Deb from the movie, but I can’t remember her real name); I talked with Dan (made up incredibly well as the dark priest, sans little boy), and Hazen and Sarah (Caesar and a witch respectively, although I think it would have been better with their roles reversed; the toga Hazen wore was quite revealing and would have looked better on a female figure), and then made my way to the keg which was feverishly pumping out the Carlsberg, cup after cup after cup.
I was beckoned there by “Deb” after playing a live version of my song “For Tonight” (I actually brought my guitar, as part of my costume) and her getting a little too giddy for my liking (remember folks, she is married; if she wasn’t married, this wouldn’t be a problem). After her pouring me a drink, we talked about something (can’t remember) and then something else (can’t remember what else), I made my way to the chairs on the lawn which were right under some palm trees… Some very low palm trees. I remember this because in approximately 5 out of 5 seats, you would get palm leaves hitting the back of your head when you sat down. They may look cool; they don’t feel cool. Think crabgrass that’s got way too far out of control and now smacking you on the back of the head like an annoyed co-worker.
But I digress. Anyways, I continued this routine for a little while longer (sing, get up, walk to keg, drink, sit down) but I soon found that while I may have been drunk, this beautiful specimen (and by that I mean, myself) realized that being a burnout meant that I should have my groupies bring me drinks. And so they did. Drink after drink entered my mouth, and as I sit here now, I wonder if I was in some kind of race. After about 5 or 6 more, I remember playing some incredibly messed up version of Plinko (think Price is Right), but the winning space (plink?) was that I had to funnel a beer. I’m pretty sure I made it, and I’m pretty sure I was the only one who could do it (I vaguely remember Matt saying something about that a little later on) even if I did throw up right afterwards.
At this point I was so drunk, standing up without using something else to anchor me was becoming more and more difficult and I remember someone (possibly “Deb”) coming up to me and telling me to put the guitar away. I remember at the time thinking “why?”, but I can only imagine now that it was because I was probably hitting someone with the neck repeatedly and/or wobbling which made someone who cared about guitars nervous.
After putting the guitar back in its case, I made my way back into the crowd, talked with Hazen for what seemed like about 2 minutes before Matt busted in proclaiming he was too drunk and wanted to go home to our new castle (more on that in a bit). While I was too proud to admit it at the time (I was probably more drunk than he was), I begrudingly accept his offer of homewardness and we make our way down the million or so steps that lead us down from the party down to the road where we could catch a cab. I don’t really remember waiting for one, but I also don’t remember a lot of last night, so who knows, but apparently we ended up back home as I /did/ wake up in my own bed, and I didn’t even have any coyote ugly women with me (re-watch the movie if you forget what that means).
After I woke up this morning, the first thing I thought (of course after wanting to exchange my eyelids for ones that are pre-sewed shut) was “oh crap, I left my guitar at the party and it’s going to rain or hurricane or something” however, the first thing I saw when I walked out of my room was my guitar. I have absolutely no idea how it made it’s way to my place; I do /NOT/ remember grabbing it, and I’m pretty sure Matt didn’t either, but our doors were deadbolted, so it’s not like someone just dropped it off either. I’m sure it will remain a mystery, as even though I may have been more drunk than him, that is a pretty low bar to set when it comes to memory and I’m pretty sure Matt won’t know either. Whatever.
So moving….Rewind to yesterday morning. Matt arrives to my place 15 minutes early, scaring the shit out of me in the process as I wasn’t awake at the time (his knock on the door always just seems like it’s something official like police or something; definitely not pleasant). I get up shower myself, and get on his new motorcycle (a Honda CBR150) and make the ride into downtown to pick up one of the company vans. Why? It’s MOVING DAY!!! *sigh*
Before leaving in the van, I get on Matt’s scooter and get a crash course (no, the name isn’t actually descriptive) in Common Bermudian Transportation 101. I learned very quickly that it’s very much like riding a bike, except it’s as fast as other cars, and it’s an automatic.
EDITOR’S INTERJECTION: Matt just woke up and he has no idea even how he got home, nevermind how my guitar did. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.
We did 4 loads from his old place to our new one, including the single one it took to move my large suitcase, guitar case, and oversized-hockey-bag-on-wheels as well, and did it all without breaking a sweat. Whether it was because the “vans” here are no bigger than shoeboxes on wheels or something else, it didn’t even feel like we were moving, which is probably the most rewarding feeling you’ll ever have: moving and not /feeling/ like you’ve moved (other than for the most obvious fact that you’re now sleeping somewhere else). We even had time to run into town so I could grab a new bedding set (I even got the Martha Stewart name brand set) and so Matt could run to the hardware store to get copies of our newly acquired housekeys cut.
While having a celebratory beer in the backyard for all of our “hard work”, we took part in a time-honoured Bermudian tradition of wall sitting. It sounds kind of weird, but apparently Bermudians have this thing where they just sit on a 3 or 4 foot high cinderblock wall, of which you can find all over Bermuda. Anyways, while doing this, Matt decided it would be a good idea to grab his golf clubs and smack a few balls from our backyard into the bay that lies about 100 (or 2) yards south, but soon realized that he was getting dangerously close to putting one right through the windows of the house directly on the other side of the bay. He contemplated this for a moment, and while we all decided that we would give the first of us who could actually make this particularly funny shot a free night of drinking, we decided that golf could wait for later.
Which brings us to the party, which I’ve already told you about, so if you forget, just re-read this post. I’m off to try and find something in this house that will relieve my headache and will hopefully rid me of this hangover-from-hell. Talk to you later kids.