No writing yesterday. I try to write a little everyday, but I was a little hung-over from Saturday night’s open-mic night at Caramel Mama’s. I didn’t think I drank that much. I didn’t in fact. Not at the concert, anyhow. I could have driven home, but then I don’t really like lying to Akiko, and if she had asked how I got home, I would have had to say that I drove. Not that I condone drinking and driving. I abhor it, in fact. But when it’s cold and you don’t want to get up in the morning to get your car, and you can see without closing one eye, you tend to forget where your morals are located. They go the way of the suicidal sock.
When I arrived to Harashin to get some snacks for my post-live celebration, I was doing just fine. No double vision or incontrollable desire to vomit on the unpacked boxes of instant ramen cluttering the aisles. I paid for my wares and hopped back into the taxi. I got home, went up stairs and proceeded to watch Lost and Battlestar Galactica. I had two beers – a tall one and a short one – as well as some cheese and crackers. Average for a night party. I even drank some Ukon no Chikara, hoping that the turmeric would work its magic on my liver. In retrospect, probably should have had more than one. So, as you can see, not a terribly crazy night.
The problem was that I didn’t drink ANY water, save for the little I downed with the turmeric powder, and I stayed up until nearly 4 am. Bad combinations. Bad things. Bad times the next morning when I woke up and Akiko had a plate of egg salad staring me in the face. It looked delicious, for an instant. After the first bite, however, my appetite vanished and I couldn’t even look at the plate. Akiko worried about me, and rightfully she should have. I wasn’t feeling well, but I thought it was mainly from my headache. So, after breakfast, I took some Bufferin and lay back down. Around 10:30 the doorbell rang and a representative from post office was standing there with a package, probably the one from my folks. I received it, speaking only the most necessary amount of words to nice man in glasses and standard issue blue suit. The box made its way up to the living room couch table and I somehow made my way back to bed. With nothing in my stomach, I knew I couldn’t risk taking another dose of Bufferin without doing some real damage to my insides. So I just went back to sleep. Akiko returned about an hour later, shocked that I still was sleeping. With my wily charm, though, I coaxed her back into bed, where we slept until about 1:30. We woke, and I felt hungry. My stomach growled, even though my head still pounded its deep South African rhythms. Why South African, I couldn’t tell you. But as it beat, images of my SA friends flashed through my mind. Really, not sure why.
I suggested Ocean Terrace for lunch and she seemed excited. So we changed, and left for a late lunch. Exiting the car, a wave of fried garlic abused my nose and my head pounded even harder, sending its pulses to my stomach which started to gurgle and bounce around with nasty intentions. But because of my love for my wife, I pressed onward. We waited in the foyer, she deciding what to order and my trying to make the pain in my head and sour feeling in my stomach subside. The gig was up. She knew. I honestly did feel better right after my nap, but the smell from the restaurant did not help. We ordered. She got seafood curry and I a demi-gras
Akiko finished her meal, all but licking the huge bowl, and she tackled some of my leftovers. More power to you, honey! We shopped for groceries at the Harashin next door, went to the 100 yen shop and bought some black Q-tips, and finally ended our outing with a trip to the video store.
Juno. Rented it. Watched it. Quite a fine film. We both laughed and teared up a little. She then went to sleep but I checked my classes online, eating more of the infamous cheese and crackers. Sans beer of course. I know when I’ve reached my limit for a weekend. Watched more BG and Whedon’s new Dollhouse.
All this to say what? Aren’t I supposed to say something? Make some monumental insight into the meaning of life and our existence here. What do people do on blog’s anyway? And how many times has someone asked that question on a blog, especially those that just start out blogging? If there is nothing new under the sun, how can this text be anything but repetition? Stories are repetition.
The stories we tell, the one about the girlfriend who slammed us or the boyfriend who cheated on you with your mother… these are the stories we all have, we all share, we all know and hate to admit to have experienced. But when we share these mundane moments of everydayness, some spark of recognition flashes and we can connect to another person. For a sliver of a second, we can look into someone’s eyes and honestly say, “I know what it means to be you.”
Or, maybe I'm still a little hung-over
