Not to be alarmist, but I woke up in the middle of the night choking on what I have to assume was my own vomit. Now it's possible that someone snuck in and poured a glass of vomit into my mouth. But I'm not lending that theory much credence; it would be hard to prove who's vomit it was because you can't really dust for vomit (R.I.P. Eric "Stumpy Joe" Childs).
I hadn't been drinking at the John Bonham level (maybe more along the lines of a Lohan or a Dunst), and an autopsy would have shown no other drugs in my system. So what the fuck? I'm not sick, in the traditional sense. I haven't eaten anything that would try to crawl back up, though I had sushi two days ago.
The only solution is to recreate last night down to the last detail and sleep with my camcorder on. Then my filmmaking partner, M.Wing, can use the footage in our biopic of the great Bon Scott. I realize that's not actually a solution. But it would give me an excuse to wear sleeveless denim and sing like this:
Listen to This: The Race To Ban Abortion
2 years ago
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