This weekend, I learned that there are worse after effects than a hangover from overindulging in alcohol. I’m not sure if I had a resolution breaking night, but I definitely pushed the envelope. The end came early, as my body, of it’s own volition, decided to reject the poison. It rejected it into the yard, and then after I had crawled off to solitude to await sobriety, it rejected it some more on the asphalt. My body was correct in its decision to dump the poison, I just wish the rate of flow had been a little slower, perhaps slow enough that my face would not have been a garden of broken blood vessels on Sunday morning, perhaps even slow enough that my throat would not still be a raw conduit of pain today. Fair enough, I need to learn something from these lessons my body teaches me. If there were no pain involved, I might be tempted to always let my body ride on cruise control through toxic levels of cheap Vodka. I may have exceeded my 325 ml prescribed maximum dose, but I am officially cutting that back now to 200 ml. I could deal with the reddened face and the raw throat occasionally, but I’ve become afraid the next blood vessel to break might be somewhere more delicate, somewhere two, three, maybe four inches behind my pretty face.

I will say, however, that my body did a surprisingly good job in its zeal to rid me of the poison. I woke up at 5:30 quite sober and I suffered none of the more traditional effects of a hangover.

I finally watched The Dukes of Hazzard last night. It’s not a good movie, but I don’t think that the filmmakers really appreciated what they were trying to lampoon. They’ve taken a film that by its namesake could have been a B+ movie with some real meaning, and turned it into a C- slapstick farce. Some of the jokes were funny, but there were just too many car chases in between them for even the comedy to be taken well. He thing about the original Dukes that is completely missed in this film is the constant sense of desperation that they felt. The Dukes were always on the verge of being raped by The Man, and they knew it. The light moments were few, and they were strained. Daisy had to be so tough because she had been through the mill. She had been chewed up and spit out by a system that treated feminine beauty as a commodity, and she had adapted to it by growing a tough veneer, while inside she was screaming all the time. Needless to say, Jessica Simpson does not bring that off well, but of course I’m sure she was never asked to. As a comedy, this movie is so-so. As a tribute to a childhood institution, it’s a dismal failure.