I work at the One Union recording studio. One year, our annual Christmas party was to be followed by a recording session at 2am. Turns out we were connecting to Cape Town, South Africa to record “Ninja” from Die Antwoord. It was noon there.
The fancy shmancy restaurant we go to for dinner every year is Jardiniere, by the opera house. They pour drinks with a heavy hand! We all had some whiskey at the office before the party, and once there I indulged in my usual drinking of the oldest and most expensive scotch they have available (it’s on the boss’ tab!) The dinner went well, was really fun, and Jesus those scotches were huge! We ate scallops, steak, risotto, holy shit, tons of buttery french shit piled up on top of all that booze. I drank like an asshole even though I knew I had an overnight session coming up.
At around 11pm, I left the group and cabbed it back to One Union. I changed out of my nice clothes, threw on a hoodie, and passed out on the couch for a few hours. At 1:30 I woke up and set up the studio. I felt fucking horrible. talk about the mother of all hangovers —going to work after 2 hours of sleep! I could barely drink water, forget coffee or food! I ate a handful of Tums and some Tylenol, and decided that NO, I was not going to throw up tonight.
The clients shuffled in just before 2am and we connected to South Africa to start recording. The script is huge, and we’re going to be here all night. After an hour or so we took a break. I went to the bathroom and decided that YES, I was going to throw up. I tried but to no avail, dry heaving. “Great!” I thought. “Maybe I’ll be fine.” “NO—let’s puke” says my stomach. Great idea! Once, twice! THREE TIMES!!! into the crapper—barfing so fucking hard it was painful. Really really side-splitting, like giving birth—but that toxic waste had to come up n’ out. KEEP in mind that 100 feet away in the studio are my clients, and I have to get back in there and keep recording this international celebrity. There’s no one else in the building.
I go the sink to wash up. Suddenly I realize I was going to need a FOURTH TIME. I couldn’t stop it. The pressure was too great! I dash towards the toilet again and futilely grab my mouth with my hand which, as you may have experienced for yourself at one time, doesn’t stop the barf—it merely directs it at high velocities in essentially EVERY direction. Now it’s 3am, I am covered in barf, the bathroom is covered in barf, and any minute now Die Antwoord is going to walk back into the booth in Cape Town and I should really get back in front of the console.
My situation is further complicated by the fact that I am leaving for Costa Rica in a few hours, and I was already wearing the clothes I intended to wear for the next full day, on the airplanes. It’s not like I packed a backup hoodie! I started running back and forth between the bathroom and the office, grabbing paper towels and cleaning spray—god forbid one of the agency guys needs to take a piss and finds me in the men’s room up to my ankles in a sour cocktail of 18 year old scotch and shellfish glazed with truffle oil. I thought for sure I was finished, but I managed to get all the blown-chunks off the floor, off the walls, off the toilet seat, and out of my beard in only a few nasty minutes of horrible panic.
So, I managed to get away with it. I stuffed my soiled hoodie in a plastic garbage bag and tied it off. The other bag full of paper towels and vomit I tied up, ran outside of the building, and threw away in a public garbage can on the street. I stuffed my mouth with Trident, threw on the shirt I wore to work this morning, and snuck back into the studio without incident. Well, without ADDITIONAL incident.
….and NOW I feel great! But here we are, nearly 5am and I’m trying to figure out what to do. If the session goes late I’ll have to run right to the airport, and then what do I do with the rotten hoodie? Throw it away? Leave it sealed off in my car to ferment for two weeks? FUCK! I’ve already bought this same RVCA sweatshirt twice because I lost the first one in LA earlier this summer. I wonder how long it will take me to race home, shower, change clothes, soak the sweatshirt in the sink and drive back to One Union?
Happy New Year, everybody.
Image courtesy of John, flickr