It is the new year, and I am fully prepared to take it on with good intentions. It hasn't always been that easy to start out the holiday with such unsullied gusto.
As they sometimes say, anything worth doing is worth doing to excess. Hence, hangovers run amuck on the first day of the year.
Those who profess to never have had a hangover either aren't telling the truth or didn't sample enough of everything in sight.
I remember one particular New Year's Day in the '60s waking to loud purring in my ear from Killer, my cat. It was her way of telling me, "Time for breakfast."
Due to the previous night's cocktail over-ingestion, it took all my strength to open one eyeball.
The incessant kneading of my head persuaded me to sit upright and face the music.
To make matters worse, it was a bright, sunny day - the curse of the hangover victim.
My head throbbed as I slithered toward the bathroom. Killer wove herself between my legs, aiming me toward the kitchen, but it was imperative I stop to find a cure.
Through red, squinty eyes, I scanned the medicine cabinet and found a plethora of medicines that would cure many an ailment but none that would solve once and for all, the age-old dilemma of over-imbibing.
Killer - persistent in her quest for food - steered me toward the kitchen.
Sliding one foot in front of the other, my head throbbing, I steadied myself on the counter.
My fingers touched a small sample sent in the mail the day before. There it was, like a message from a higher power: a product called Fizzaren, a little bigger than an aspirin and smaller than an Alka Seltzer.
Without even reading the directions, I poured a big glass of water and popped two medium-size tablets in my mouth.
I was looking out the back door when I noticed a strange foaming action happening on the back of my tongue.
I quickly gulped the big glass of water, only to find those little tablets exploding into a huge mass of foam that refused to gulp down. I couldn't breathe!
I fell on my back with arms and legs flailing and made my way across the kitchen floor out toward the front door.
Killer sat staring, her eyes as wide as Alka Seltzer tablets, watching my weird rug dance come to an abrupt stop. I belched so loud, she jumped a foot.
I lay there in a cold sweat with my heart pounding and my body shaking.
I then started to laugh, so relieved it was all over.
I actually felt a bit better, but I would definitely not recommend this crude remedy.
Later, I discovered the trick was to dissolve the tablets in water. But then I would have missed the unique experience of not breathing.
One hangover remedy my roommates and I discovered was to rim a flower vase-size beer schooner with lemon and roll it in sugar, fill it with crushed ice and pop it in the freezer.
After a night of overtime drinking, it was a real treat around 4 a.m. to wake up dry-mouthed to a freezing cold glass of half-apple juice, half-club soda and the juice of half a lemon.
That first gulp usually left the glass empty and ready for a refill, followed by the ritual of licking the sugar and lemon from the rim.
This, at least, replenished the liquid loss our depleted bodies endured.
Funny thing about society in the '50s: If we started having a few beers at the local bars in Madison Park, we felt proper about hitting a series of bars afterward.
As the sun rose and we headed east, we sometimes found ourselves at Bird Land, at 22nd and Madison, where I once sat right in front of Ray Charles as he played some old favorites.
The Attic opened around 9 a.m. and beckoned us to enjoy a pan-fried steak and a yellow onion. Dave Romano, the owner at the time, would cook this combo for us after we purchased the ingredients from the Village Foods next door.
It would be most proper to have a couple cold beers then because it was still part of the night before.
There was no hangover with this procedure, only a 24-hour sleep marathon.
A cure in the '70s was a coin-operated machine the Red Onion Tavern introduced to people suffering from the previous night's overindulgences.
One simply had to don the cone-shaped cup over a nozzle to inhale pure oxygen. The effect only lasted 10 to 20 minutes, so several visits were required.
Of course, the old standby, "the hair of the dog that bit you," actually worked for my wife once. It was our first date 24 years ago.
We were introduced the week before at the Red Onion, and I thought I would invite her for dinner. She informed me that she may have crossed the good wine line and didn't feel perky enough to accept a date.
I mentioned I was referred to as "the doctor" and would cure her with a little white Russian, a lovely drink consisting of Kahlua, vodka and milk.
Well, she was cured all right. The white Russian, new friends, a gambling game of 6 Penny and dinner at Elliott Bay Fish & Oyster House resulted in a beautiful romance that has lasted till this day.
The days of drinking are over. Can you imagine driving home in the early morning hours after hitting all those popular spots and being barely able to drive because of the lack of sleep? Yeah, that's it, the lack of sleep.
These days it is best to spend time at home with a good glass of wine or two and simply reminisce how we managed to party so hearty.
Richard Carl Lehman is a Madison Park resident. Send e-mail to him at krlehman@comcast.net.
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