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Larry cartoon in the Archives page by onlyone.
Diary of a 
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(June 30, 2003) Death Stopped By To Say Hello *ring.* ... *Ring?* ... *RING!*
By lifting my head and closing one eye, I make
the caller ID swim into painful focus, and for my effort I am rewarded with
three valuable pieces of information:
That was last night. I know that I picked up the phone and had an inane giggly conversation with popeshag, and I know that I barfed not long after. But I'm pretty sure the phone call and the barfing are unrelated. This morning at 7-something-sickening-o-clock, I woke up via special patented Elvis-method (which means I blearily paw at a relentless excruciating tease of a tickle on my face for a long time and dream about packs of tortursome death butterflies until I figure out it's cat whiskers and I open my eyes to find another set of eyes half an inch from my face). I wasn't in my bed. I was in the living room, in my underwear, sprawled on the daybed. There was half a hamburger roll next to my head. The phone was off the hook and also upside down on the floor. Good lord. I went back in time, through the Jungle Sweet Jungle archives (as McC would say, "TOTAL recall, baby!") to find the last time I went to bed with Jose Cuervo or one of his sneaky friends and woke up fuzzed at the edges. I think the last time was November-- it was Stoli and cranberry and some otherworldly pot, and it was Izzy's post-Hedwig party, and it was "never again." Stoli = Bad. Like Cuervo is any better. Oooooh, GOOD LORD, the Tequila, WHY the Tequila. I feel like a bag of sand and broken glass. How do people do this with any degree of regularity?! You know what? Bastille Day is coming up fast. Saturday, July 12th, at the Lizard Lounge. Historically, the Mardi Gras and Bastille Day bashes are a good time to go ahead and make yourself good and sick the next day. Unfortunately, I totally blew my drink ticket on last night. I can't do that again for like...awhile. God, I'm sick this morning. And this bastard isn't helping...
Lexikahn: Elvis woke me up. popeshag14: yeah, i know how you feel. james dean woke me up smelling of whiskey and coke and some breakfast sausage. Lexikahn: Do you enjoy torturing me even though you don't get paid for it or anything? popeshag14: how was that torture? i thought it was at least mildly amusing. Lexikahn: What's the name of that guy who told you about the Project Eno auditions and subsequently ruined my year? popeshag14: oh, you mean brian? Lexikahn: I'ma machine gun that fucker.
(Popeshag onstage in Switzerland. I was dying in the hospital at this moment. He's probably thinking "DAMN, these pants make my ass look delicious.")
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