Audio By Carbonatix
The crucial question of the morning: Does anybody remember how I cut my hand?
I, unfortunately, have no idea — because last night, we entered the Vortex. That’s a term coined by some friends to describe how things tend to spin out of control when we go out: You get sucked into the Vortex, and you never know where you’ll finally emerge. Now, not every night turns out this way, but I can always tell when it’s going to happen. I get this coiled-spring feeling in my gut. I’m restless. Beer goes down really easily. Each person’s destabilizing energy combines into a kind of mob mentality, and before you know it, you’re wondering why you didn’t notice filleting your hand to the bone sometime during the preceding twelve hours.
In the Vortex’s grip, I’ve asked a very famous actress to give me one of my 33 birthday spanks; I’ve held a lengthy conversation in a women’s bathroom and somehow managed not to get thrown out; I’ve seen friends use some of the most hideous pick-up moves in history and get away with them. It’s almost like we’re sixteen and invincible again.
We discovered the Vortex when we were in college, and thanks to the amazing regenerative properties of the liver, I am still able to withstand the punishment that an evening in the Vortex inflicts — although it takes me longer to feel human again. Many of my medical-school colleagues were naturals, and in our crowd now, there are some who enjoy the ride. But when a few of us founding fathers get together these days, there are looks of terror in other friends’ eyes.
Last Saturday we felt a gravitational pull and a subtle spinning sensation build throughout the day. As we have in the past, we chose the Celtic Tavern, at 1801 Blake Street, as ground zero for the Vortex to emerge. The Celtic is just like a real Irish pub — if Irish pubs all have cheesy dark paneling and serve quesadillas; and if guys in Ireland drink Guinness just to look cool despite preferring cheaper American “beer” that tastes like a combination of Lysol and Listerine; and if Irish women drink specialty martinis that look like radioactive Kool-Aid; and if Irish house bands play Santana and Skynyrd all night long. The Celtic is also ideally suited to the extremely extroverted personality of the Vortex: It’s always crowded, so you can bounce around with relative anonymity.
While spreading goodwill throughout the bar, I asked a young lady named Heather for a pen because I wanted to write down something she had said. Rooting around in her purse, she proceeded to pull out swimming goggles, coupons, a deck of Uno cards, her cell phone, a packet of mustard, eight tubes of Chap Stick (why does anyone who’s not Picabo Street need that much Chap Stick?) and, finally, a pen. I have never understood purses, nor the apparent need of women to haul half of their earthly possessions around with them everywhere they go in case of an emergency. Only MacGyver could deal with a true emergency, like a bomb threat, by fashioning a bomb-disposal robot out Uno cards held together with mustard and Chap Stick while using the cell phone as the robot’s brain. Unfortunately, unless there was a crisis at the Celtic involving terminally chapped lips or a water-main break requiring goggles to find the exit, Heather was helping no one.
While Heather conducted her archeological dig, I was becoming increasingly agitated. So I felt compelled to offer some helpful advice — for example, that her pen might be buried underneath the John Holmes Memorial Marital Aid that was undoubtedly somewhere in her purse. And because I was in the Vortex, I got away with it. Maybe she was too shocked for my comment to really register. Maybe she felt it was unfair to slap someone so obviously mentally handicapped. Maybe she thought it was as funny as I did.
In any case, Heather did not take the shot at me that I deserved. Instead, she and her table of friends were mercilessly sucked into the Vortex, too. Next thing I knew, someone had ordered a round of shots and another beer for me; one of Heather’s friends was wearing the swim goggles; the Chap Stick was making its way around the table; and we were all engrossed in an ultra-competitive game of Uno. In typical Vortex behavior, I lost all sense of priority and focused more on destroying these women in Uno than on showing them that I was a nice guy or even a sane human being. The game ended abruptly when one of our other friends showed up and we spun off in a new direction.
The next day, I felt bad about that. I’d introduced Heather and other innocent women into the insanity of the Vortex and then left them without a guide. I’m not sure where they ended up. I just hope they had their passports. I felt worse that I couldn’t remember what I’d done to my hand. And that I couldn’t read whatever I’d written down with Heather’s pen. I just hoped it wasn’t her phone number.
