Museum of Bars with Magical Powers

Bologna briefly visited me over this weekend. I say briefly because she left my home approximately 36 hours after arriving. Since I was asleep for about 13 of those hours and drunk for another 9 of them, that left only 14 hours of actual visiting time. In all fairness, she was in town on business and squeezed in a side trip. Despite time constraints, good times were had. Oh. We had those good times. They were had in the most possessive way possible because I have photographic evidence. See, here’s some now:

In order to capture that picture, I stuffed Bologna into a corner between two display cases and shoved a camera in her hand. That can be tricky to do because she often fights back which is troublesome when you're in a room filled with things made of glass and money and oldness. We must also applaud her for allowing me to do deviant things in the kiddy area as well. For example, there’s a display that encourages patrons to “make their own museum” by perusing a bin of junk and selecting things that bear some vague resemblance to each other. We viewed Timmy’s Museum of Red Hexagons and Samantha’s Museum of Bits of String. Then we made our own:

It was short lived like so many other cultural exhibits. I blame lack of funding. I also blame Bologna, who had an attack of the conscience and made me disassemble it. I saved my real rambunctiousness for Grasshoppah’s birthday extravaganza at Jake Ivory’s Dueling Piano Bar where many rumndiets were consumed, many strangers were square-danced with, and I’m inclined to think many stages might have been invaded with Notorious in tow. We had no choice but to infiltrate because we were not invited to come up and air guitar like Grasshoppah was:

Though the events may be foggy I thankfully, long ago, trained myself to get home while drunk. In my brain, high blood-alcohol content is solidly linked with directing a cabbie to my suburb through the circuitous, confusing roads of Boston. I can’t help it now. It’s an automatic response. Offered a warm couch to crash on, I will instinctively bolt for the door screaming “TAKE A LEFT AT THE END OF THIS STREET! NOW A RIGHT! THANK YOU VERY MUCH HAVE A GOOD EVENING.” Having accomplished that, I woke up in my own bed around 8 am when Beau was (trying) to drive Bologna to the train station. Instead, it became apparent that I had performed one of my favorite college tricks and no one could leave: I woke up drunk. Not just a little drunk. Fail-a-breathalyzer drunk. They escaped shortly after I demanded to be spooned. Since my sleep had been disturbed, I decided the best thing to do would be to head off the hangover while I still could. I proceeded to consume a gallon of water and everything in my refrigerator. Satiated, I crawled back into bed.

Around 2 pm, I woke to a car alarm which would normally have caused me to slink under the bed in a fit of nausea and head-pounding pain. Instead I sat up. I stretched. I wiggled my toes. I looked around the room. Something was very wrong indeed. I wasn’t hung over. Despite forgetting my own name the night before, I was somehow, unhungover. Could it be? Had I cured a hangover with my excessive eating and water guzzling? Later that day, the girls corroborated on their apparent states of hydration and well being as well. In a moment of what can only be described as religious epiphany, I realized that it was Jake Ivory’s who had cured me.

All bow before ye mighty bar that giveth the booze and taketh away thy hangover. Amen.