Smásaga

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The Chronicles of a Hangover: The Headache, The Aspirin and the Porn Director.

My head feels like a night to remember and a splitting ceiling. Well, since I can’t remember last night I can only hope that it’s something I should remember rather than something I’ll try to forget. First thing on the wish list: sitting up, the next thing after that would have to be food, if there’s food to be had. I must have mixed some weird stuff last night. Honestly, it feels like I drank clay.

Ok, it’s time for a hangover helper if the ingredients are in place; a sugar cube, a glass of water and some aspirin. The sugar water tides my stomach over because whatever I eat right now will be projectile in 5 minutes flat and the aspririn? Well, that’s kind of obvious.

I have to do something I really shouldn’t, check my bank account status on-line. I have to because I was on a budget last night and since I can’t remember anything after a certain shot of tequila a brief reminder of places visited is in order.
Only 70 dollars spent? That’s less than I expected, especially since I apparently was a customer at Denny’s at roughly 4 am, that’s probably the clay in my stomach. Still, that’s at the very least 60 bucks on alcohol, man, that’s a lot. I hope I was a generous giver of drinks towards some buddies.

Discovery channel and a phone, if you can’t remember what you did last night, these two elements will help you get your memory back. You’ll be like Stella, except all she got back was her groove; maybe you’re more like Arnie in Total Recall. That’s what I’m after right now, total recall.

After a quick conversation I have pieced together one piece of my evening. After the fateful tequila shot I had at our first stop, Morrey’s, I apperantly offered an overweight actress my business card and told her I was a director. That’s kind of funny because I don’t have a business card. A short shuffle through my last night trouser pockets should shed some light on the mystery; a lighter, funny cos I don’t smoke, cigarettes, there you go, cell phone, better check that later and 8 business cards reading: Johnny Dumoine, porn director. Now, where did I get those?

Text messages are often a potent source of information regarding a night out, perhaps they’ll even tell me who Johnny Dumoine, porn director is. Now this is weird, I have a whole bunch of messages from someone called Claire and it seems like we spent quite a lot of time together last night. She may very well be the mysterious overweight actress that I gave a Johnny Dumoine business card to.

“No, I’m actually not Johnny Dumoine.” I’m trying to sound like I’m sorry, but honestly I just want to gather information. While thinking that I totally missed out on the conversation “listen, where did we get off to after Morrey’s?”
“Oh, we went to this really nice hotel lounge called the Scepter.”
“The Scepter? Those are like 11-dollar beers, explains what I spent last night. Did I get you any drinks?”
“No, but…”
I decided I would end the conversation there “Oh, thank god” the click on the other end must fell like a dagger in her heart but I really don't care at this point. The aspirin was wearing off and last night is feeling like a bigger mistake by the minute.

The aspirin safely lodged in my throat and last night becoming something I really want nothing to do with, more learning about spider monkeys on discovery channel is in order. A knock on the door; opening it I find a man in, possibly, the cheapest suit I’ve seen in my life and some really scantily clad women, a thought entering my mind was soon certified. “Hi, I’m Johnny Dumoine. Porn Director. We met last night at Morrey’s.” A smile on his face so smarmy a senator’s son would be proud of it. “We have a contract stipulating that we can shoot a film in your house.”
Now, when people say: “and his face fell off” I never got it, now I get it.
“The shoot will just take a couple hours, you can watch if you want.” There was really only one response I could come up with: “No thanks, I have to find somebody to sterilize my apartment.”