N.P. Yuggoth's Worst Fucking Hangover Ever

A place far, far away

Outside of the window, there's just a soupy white fog, illuminated by the flashes of some strobe light on the plane. I can feel that we're descending, but I have absolutely no points of reference. Normally, when I land in a new city, I can catch the streets down below, grids mapped out in orange street lamps. But not in this corner of the country. The landing comes as a total surprise, as the outside is shrouded in mist. Thank the Ancient Ones for navigation technology.

I have been flying for well over half the day. By the time I touch down in Alex's home state, two time zones away, it's past ten at night and black as pitch. When paired with the nasty ass weather that this region is so known for, I know that it's going to be a lot darker over the next week. I'm used to cold, cold winter days, but with clear skies and the deep, almost indigo blue of Lake Michigan lapping at the shore. That's what I usually prefer, with a temperature of 20, and humidity hovering around zero.

Out here, it's anywhere between 40 or 50 degrees, and I wouldn't be surprised if the humidity is about 100.

Cyan, white, and indigo. Cold. Bright.

Now it's more like brown, black, and deep greens. Cool and damp. It's going to take some getting used to. But I know that I'm going to have a fucking awesome week and a half out here. I've got a job to do, after all: record an album. If all goes well, when I fly back next Tuesday, I'll have a Alex's vocal tracks all down. He's got ideas for most of them, but he doesn't exactly have lyrics. This worries me a bit, but Alex has always been a last minute kind of guy. This is, after all, the same guy who aced a test he didn't study for. In fact, he watched the Robocop trilogy instead of studying on that occassion.

The international airport to which I've flown looks a bit run down. The gaudy carpets and interior remind me of a vintage Las Vegas casino. I pick up my luggage from the conveyor belt, and check to see that my Tascam 4 track is whole. It is, but that's just the outside of it. We may be over half way through the first decade of the new millennium, but I'm stuck in the mid-90's as far as technology is concerned, a fact of which I'm slightly aware. If this damn thing breaks, there will be no album, because I'm sure no one will remember how to fix such a thing.

Alex greets me with what could pass as either a hug or a tackle. "How the fuck are you?" he asks. "Flight wasn't too bad, was it?"

"Nah," I answer. "I saw Fred at the airport as I was leaving, actually."

"What the hell was he doing there?" Alex asks. "Hasn't that motherfucker graduated yet?"

"Coming back from New York, and no, he said he's still got another year."

Alex shakes his head. Fred had always been a goofy one--not the hardest partier, but if there was a party, he would usually be there. I had lost touch with the guy, so it seems odd that I'd run into him by chance just as I was leaving to go visit my old college partner in crime.

We get out to the parking lot to find Alex's ride--his parent's station wagon of all things. I can't say anything about taste, as I myself had a duo of wagons as my first cars. But still, I have a hard time reconciling Alex and this innocent looking vehicle.

"It handles fine on the roads," Alex answers my stares of confusion. "Take a look in the backseat."

N.P. YuggothJanuary 18, 2015n.p. yuggoth, popov, jack daniels, booze, drinking, alcoholComment

The Legend of the Demon Wop

Senior Year, late April/early May

For every man, there is an alcohol that brings back fond memories. And on the other hand, there is always at least one that makes the mind recoil in abject horror at the mere mention of the name. These are the yin and the yang of alcoholism.

Tequila, in spite of some bad hangovers and an assortment of horrific, possibly self-inflicted wounds, always makes me strangely nostalgic for summer and seafood gumbo. Leinie's Original does just about the same thing, especially when paired with strong stain of good weed. There's a black currant liquor from the Czech Republic and Serbian slivovica that always bring to mind fresh spring days.

Any type of cheap vodka falls into the second category, and I can safely say that they have completely ruined my palate for Milwaukee brand Polish Style pickles. In my nightmares, I can see the consonant clusters of the infernal Polish tongue on the label, and remember how I tried to pronounce them in a drunken stupor, giving myself a splitting headache in the process. Cheap vodka makes me think of passing out in the bushes near my dorm, and vomiting in my laundry basket not once, but twice. I remember with great lucidity picking up that cheap, blue basket, sitting my ass down on Ice Dogg's leopard print couch, and waiting for a great inner tide to hurl forth a foul mix of Caeser salad and finely masticated pickles, all smothered in a vodka and stomach acid reduction.

Three, two, one...blast off!

I must note, however, that there is a third category of alcohols so motley, that they defy such crude labeling of black and white. Hell, these bastards aren't even in the gray zone; they're more like off colours, uncomfortable shades with silly names like salmon or fushia, shit that any real man has no clue what the fuck they are. You can't decide that they're soothing or irritating, a really girly colour, or something you could somehow wear without emasculating yourself. If someone gives you a garment in this colour, it probably sits in the back of your closet, silently being devoured by moths because it makes you feel ill at ease.

This is precisely the place that the demon wop occupies. To this day, I'm not sure that it was such a good idea, nor that was it a bad one. I can say it was the drink of the night, and I will never taste it again, as the precise recipe has been long lost, perhaps thankfully so.

Taste testing the forbidden fruit.