MORE Stupid Things That I Have Done
The Riddle of Steel
One sweltering August afternoon when I was 21, I went over to binaryj's apartment for a little party. I had just come from a wedding and was dressed in a brand new suit. This is worth noting for later.
The party consisted mostly of drinking liquor and watching movies. I'm very good at both of these things and am apt to do them with vigor. So it came as no surprise to anyone when I sat myself down with a bottle of Jose Cuervo and started downing shots. Before the evening was through, I would consume the bottle in its entirety. And since watching me abuse substances is a wildly popular spectator event, no one intervened.
Movies played. Bottles emptied. Rooms spun. The last film for which I was conscious was Conan the Barbarian, and a few of us were discussing its brilliantly composed score by Basil Poulidoris. In particular, I remember talking about a piece called "The Riddle of Steel."
This is also worth nothing.
Because a short time later, I was nearly catatonic with alcohol poisoning. And the only thing I could say at that point, the only phrase left in my entire vocabulary, was "riddle of steel."
I have no recollection of the events that followed. My friends do, however, and were all too pleased to recount them. Between fits of projectile vomiting and unintelligible groans, people would try to tend to me. I guess the conversation went something like this:
Friends: "Ben, are you okay?"
Me: (mumbling) "Riddle of steel..."
Friends: "Do you want some water?"
Me: "Uhng. R... ruh... riddle of steel."
Friends: "Are you gonna throw up again?"
Me: *spit, spit* "BAH! Riddle of steel! RIDDLEufstee..." *HOAAARRRFF!*
At one point, people were concerned that I was dying, and debated whether to take me to the hospital or just leave me outside. But once they were satisfied that I would live through the night, they sat me up in a chair, put a sombrero on my head and a cupful of dollar bills in my hand, and took pictures of me while I was unconscious. I guess I had it coming.
I woke up the next morning, which I immediately regretted. Skewers of sunlight lanced my eyeballs and set fire to my brain, while my stomach did everything in its power to forcibly escape my body. An outline of drool, which looked a lot like Italy, adorned the side of my face. And my suit was enameled with a sticky crust of barf.
One sweltering August afternoon when I was 21, I went over to binaryj's apartment for a little party. I had just come from a wedding and was dressed in a brand new suit. This is worth noting for later.
The party consisted mostly of drinking liquor and watching movies. I'm very good at both of these things and am apt to do them with vigor. So it came as no surprise to anyone when I sat myself down with a bottle of Jose Cuervo and started downing shots. Before the evening was through, I would consume the bottle in its entirety. And since watching me abuse substances is a wildly popular spectator event, no one intervened.
Movies played. Bottles emptied. Rooms spun. The last film for which I was conscious was Conan the Barbarian, and a few of us were discussing its brilliantly composed score by Basil Poulidoris. In particular, I remember talking about a piece called "The Riddle of Steel."
This is also worth nothing.
Because a short time later, I was nearly catatonic with alcohol poisoning. And the only thing I could say at that point, the only phrase left in my entire vocabulary, was "riddle of steel."
I have no recollection of the events that followed. My friends do, however, and were all too pleased to recount them. Between fits of projectile vomiting and unintelligible groans, people would try to tend to me. I guess the conversation went something like this:
Friends: "Ben, are you okay?"
Me: (mumbling) "Riddle of steel..."
Friends: "Do you want some water?"
Me: "Uhng. R... ruh... riddle of steel."
Friends: "Are you gonna throw up again?"
Me: *spit, spit* "BAH! Riddle of steel! RIDDLEufstee..." *HOAAARRRFF!*
At one point, people were concerned that I was dying, and debated whether to take me to the hospital or just leave me outside. But once they were satisfied that I would live through the night, they sat me up in a chair, put a sombrero on my head and a cupful of dollar bills in my hand, and took pictures of me while I was unconscious. I guess I had it coming.
I woke up the next morning, which I immediately regretted. Skewers of sunlight lanced my eyeballs and set fire to my brain, while my stomach did everything in its power to forcibly escape my body. An outline of drool, which looked a lot like Italy, adorned the side of my face. And my suit was enameled with a sticky crust of barf.