Friday night started out innocently enough (how’s that for foreshadowing?). I had dinner with friends, and then we headed to Main Street Café in Lexington (official motto: We’re the only bar in Lexington). This is where things took a turn towards brilliance. The problem with going here to have a few beers is that, since it is the only bar in Lexington, it’s like a high school reunion with everyone buying each other drinks until we start dancing. That’s when you know we’ve had too much…the dancing. It’s a fail safe litmus test for intoxication.

I don’t know why, but when I woke up my shirt was on inside out. A smarter man would have spent Saturday morning drinking water and praying for death. Luckily, I am not such a man. I promptly started drinking bloody marys. Not because I’m a raging alcoholic, but because we had a pig on the grill, and according to the Constitution of this great nation no pig shall be cooked unless the people cooking are drinking. I think it’s also in the Bible somewhere, New Testament if I’m not mistaken. There are few occasions that demand drinking before noon (the others being football season, camping trips, horse races, anytime you have to go to the DMV, and Arbor Day), but this is one of them, and Stan and I play by the rules. However, it does make for a long, out-of-focus day…the kind of day where you fall down the stairs because you refuse to tie your shoes, and wear your sunglasses at night. We had a great turnout, and the pig (plus the oysters that Stan’s father-in-law steamed) was fantastic. Luckily, towards the end of the night, Anna made me start drinking water (Thanks, Anna!) and I took some Advil. Somehow, this prevented me from feeling like Gary Busey warmed over the next morning, although I still looked the part. Before anyone starts to think I am going to make a habit of consuming more alcohol in a 48 hour period than normal people do in a month, I am in full detox mode until St. Patrick’s Day. My liver and brain got together and staged an intervention.