Mezcal Hangover Blues in Merry Bumbling Gringo 4/4 Time

 

 

Don’t say you were not warned, sub-moron. A local Oaxacan told you just before you started arrogantly licking the salt off that crescent between your thumb and forefinger, crushing the tart lemon wedges in your jaw, and firing down the “silver” mezcal (right out of the still) the farmer brought you from his cactus juice factory. But you powered it on, bucko, and how the freak did it come to this?

“Si...... gringos come down here and drink our mezcal in a odd haste then suddenly pass out. I see that often.....”

You jolt out of a uneasy torpor to the rusty steam valve bellowing of the farmers burro which has worked itself right under your open window. You try to raise up on one arm from the sticky sheets, scratch at what feels to be welts on your face and come away with a slight handful of blood. You stumble into the bathroom, weaving along the way, and recoil in mock horror seeing this stranger in the mirror..... much akin to a wax museum figurine after a fire burned the place down: one nostril trailing a thin blood trickle, face dotted with mosquito bites, and irridescent fuzz glowing on your teeth.

In fact, EVERYTHING is sparkling, especially out on the fringes of your sight. No, this ain’t no ordinary hangover, amigo. This is the liquid devil spawn little brother of the mescaline cactus, gringo..... welcome to Oaxaca.

Why is your freaking nose bleeding though? The “silver” was pretty spicy and who could deny it’s artful presentation, sitting all pretty in that discarded old plastic pepsi bottle the latinolandia locals love to reuse for strange esoteric brews sported in the local markets. But damn, have you dissolved the divider between your nostrils? You probe with a finger and indeed it does feel pretty vacuous up inside there.

This must be what the true professionals feel like sometimes, the guys who stumble into homeless shelters with a headful of rancid mouthwash dissolving their brainpans. Oh well, consider it education. This is adventure travel, pal!!! You worked hard for this experience and you better damn well savor it.

You make it back to the bed, closing the window against anymore mosquitos. Your wife is propped up on one elbow, glaring at you. Not a good sign. You can’t quite make out what she is trying to get across, her angry sign language looks like a blur. Something about it being bad enough that the locals shot off fireworks all night and you’re gonna be sorry when you get back on the web, dumbass, and thanks for all the mosquitos and other stuff bordering on incoherence. She quiets down when she sees you come in for a landing like a world war 2 crippled B-17 that’s eaten too much flak and has just one wheel down.

Merciful slumber evades you though. Little snippets of memory start firing off in your pounding skull to bedevil any hope of salvation:

The farmers very badass pitbull, who must have sensed you were helpless there on the porch of the cottage, actually took pity on you and stationed himself right between your legs, much to the horror of your wife, who considers him one danger stage below a 10 foot florida rattlesnake. And you petted that guy like he was a beloved, coiffed Park Avenue poodle.

What DID you do on the web? What was that you wife was trying to sign to you, speaking through some kind of filter in a foreign language? This might just be the real killer because you know from sad experience there is no telling who you rattled, told you loved them, pissed off, pitched a monumental partnership to, or smoozed. Or what seemed at the time epic prose, destined for the classics shelf, and probably qualifies as very apt bird cage liner.

This will have to delight you later on because right now you’re not going anywhere, my friend. If a earthquake fired off right now you’d just have to lie there and eat about 300 pounds of roofing tile. Your lower GI tract feels like you went 2 rounds with Mike Tyson and your muscles are trembling worse than a botched Alabama state prison 12 volt execution.

You know it will be allright though when your wife casually drapes a loving arm over your sweating frame and gently caresses your damp hair and tells you it isn’t THAT bad. And you know what? It isn’t..... this is a lovely little farm you are renting a cottage on, far enough in the boonies to feel pretty damn safe, and the porch is going to be just as warm and comfortable tomorrow as it was today and has been since you got here.

The dry desert wind will rattle in the palms, the various cactus will bristle in lovely shades of green, and the brown sands will continue to host legions of ants. Fluffy while pillows will drift across a startlingly crisp dark blue sky and iron bands will vein the pine clad mountiansides. The temperature will probably hit the low 80s, as usual, and if you can hold down your french press coffee in the morning your sweater against the first light chill will enfold you like a fur lined peanut shell. The roosters will compete for best wake-up call and, if you’re real lucky, you will find you didn’t sign away your life savings last night to the Reverend Billy Paul Osterman from the Holy Light Temple of the Just in San Antonio (“Show the love, brothers & sisters, and hit this PayPal button right here.....”).

Oh yeah..... good times in a high desert city in southern mexico.

You finally pass off into the reluctant arms of Morpheus with the full endearing intention of recommending the local mezcal experience highly to your friends (f you didn’t alienate what’s left of them sometime in the dim proceedings of last night). Yeah.... a not to be missed highlight of any south of the border desert romp. It’s not a 3 a.m. red zone strip club flameout of Saturday night sportsman youth but it’s pretty damn spicy anyway. Sparkling tunnel vision and all. And if you are just lucky enough to have a damn fine wife along this time it might just be OK in the end. It might just work out this time.....

Viva Mexico, baby!!!!!!! Viva la mezcal!!!!!!!  Well..... maybe not.