Special Halloween Edition: Expert's Guide to the Ten Levels of Hangover

No Sunday morning is complete without a 1:30 p.m. pre-brunch assessment of one's hangover. Will I make it to brunch? Do I have enough energy to make it to the bathroom? Will chicken wings cure me? How many bloody marys/mimosas/beers will I require in order to feel human once again?

It is also important that you be able to communicate your fragile condition to those closest to you. Specifically, your brunch counterparts, your parents (who inevitably choose late Sunday morning to call you), and your bartender/waitress/emergency-room nurse. These various loved ones and caretakers must be able to determine the amount of coddling/admonishment/alcohol to provide you with in order to make you whole (or, at least, semi-functional) once again. This handy ten-point hangover scale makes it that much easier to ask for the help you require... with a minimum of loud and energy-depleting talk.

LEVEL 1
Really not a "hangover" at all. You were drinking last night (probably just a few beers) and this morning you are thirsty and a little groggy. While you would prefer to avoid, say, bright sunlight and loud construction sites, you're really just one slice of toast and a glass of ginger ale away from feeling 100%. Even mentioning a hangover right now makes you a sixteen year-old girl. From Connecticut.

LEVEL 2
You consumed at least two mixed drinks last night, but you were in bed fairly early and you drank plenty of fluids. Your stomach is a little queasy and there is a nagging pressure at the base of your skull. Basically, only wussy girls would even mention a level two... unless you drank like a sailor, and now you're bragging about how little your hangover is. This will disappear within a half hour.

LEVEL 3
Now we're getting somewhere. Level three usually appears more serious at first; simply getting out of bed and into the shower makes the level three more manageable. Terrible taste in mouth begins here and headache is more noticeable. Desire for eggs and bloody mary is clear immediately upon regaining consciousness. Generally dissipates within the hour, or after one cocktail.

LEVEL 4
Traditionally, the four is the first level at which the sufferer begins to make comments like, "I have a hangover," or the more dramatic, "Dude, I am totally hung over." This is now acceptable. The four is still responsive to shower/mobilization therapy, but headache and terrible taste in mouth will persist for at least two hours or until the first cocktail. Also, the four introduces general nausea.

LEVEL 5
The next plateau. From five to seven, your destiny is largely in your own hands. Level fluctiation is common at this point, and depends largely upon your general professionalism. Get thee to a brunch, stat. If work is in the cards, proceed to the nearest sausage biscuit beforehand. Subjectivity takes over in the middle of the scale: tough guys call a seven a five, wussies call a five a seven. Here are some reliable indicators: does food still sound good? Five. Would you like a beer? Five. Can you see sunlight without weeping? Five. Now get out of bed and open a beer.

LEVEL 6
Headache migration! Although the pain at the base of the skull persists, it is joined by the little man who jabs a pitchfork into the back of your eyeballs. Light makes him angrier. Noise too. You no longer "want" food, although you sense you might "need" it. You cannot drink beer or mimosas, but bloody marys are still palatable, and you can get up to drink one. Bacon and nachos are the only edible foods. You will probably drink in the shower.

LEVEL 7
Again, tough guys will gut out the seven, but most of us will require bed service for the first cocktail. Sunlight is initially unbearable, as is the thought of leaving bed. You will need to sit down in the shower, and puking will seem like a serious possibility at first. If you're working, you will be a little late and you will stare at the wall for at least one hour. Your headache is everywhere, teeth included. You will not eat until lunch, which will be McDonald's. On a weekend, you will need at least one cocktail before you can eat. You will wear your sunglasses at brunch and you will undoubtedly bitch about the service/other customers. Level seven sufferers spend the day breathing through their mouth and experiencing mild to severe acid reflux.

LEVEL 8
Level eight is traditionally when people take a half day off of work. Your headache is severe and seems to be affecting your eyesight. But the nausea is worse. The level eight sufferer will struggle for half the day with the will-I-won't-I vomit question. At some point, a smell will fill your mouth with saliva, but you'll only gag and sit down with your head betwen your knees. At level eight the men are separated from the boys; drinking sounds horrible, but you know it's the only answer. This is the highest level at which you have any control over your condition: It will take at least three cocktails to relieve the pain, and you'll never really feel yourself. Also, no matter how many times you brush your teeth, it will still taste like you ate a dead cat.

LEVEL 9
You are not going to work today. Welcome to vomitland. Generally, the level nine sufferer will feel unable to leave the bed until they realize that they are about to barf. You would puke even more, but you're this sick in the first place because you drank on an empty stomach last night. You are basically a retard. Dizziness, severe headache, disorientation, high heart rate, an aversion to the very thought of food, and a deep, profound regret all characterize this level. Eventually, water will stay down. Later on, ginger ale and possible bland solids are on the menu. There will be no leaving the house, although the couch in front of the TV is an afternoon possibility. You will feel like solid shit all day, and will still be sluggish the next day. Level nine sufferers spend a good portion of their day questioning their choice of lifestyle and friends. Alcohol consumption is basically impossible.

LEVEL 10
If you make it to the bathroom to puke, congratulations; the floor of the bathroom is where you will spend most of your day. By nightfall, you should be able to keep water down. That's it for eating today... in fact, try not to think about food. Concentrate on breathing. The level ten sufferer is a deeply pitiful creature. All the aforementioned symptoms will persist all day and night. A low-grade fever is likely. There is a chance you will dedicate your life to the church at some point during this day. Probably right after your puke starts to resemble precious bodily fluids. You will only be able to indicate your hangover level with a show of fingers, inspiring pity from even the most callous of your alcoholic friends. Things like "brunch," "the telephone," and "speaking" are way out of your league. You will consider mumbling "take me to the hospital" at least once. You will have a level three hangover the following day. You will not touch alcohol for at least 48 hours.

Excelsior!!

Hikaru Sulu, Captain of the USS Excelsior and former helmsman of the USS Enterprise, is one o' them gays.



Hard to believe, right?

Thanks to everyone who sent me articles about this today. I love that you all thought of me when George Takei came out of the closet. It is pretty cool that he made the announcement in a G/L magazine called Frontiers. As in, "The final frontier." Nice work. Live long and prosper, you gay spaceman, you.

Ghoul's Night Out Redux

You want Halloween terror? Here you go:



Now that's scary. Luckily, GeeDubya has failed in his attempt to get Hollywood scream queen Harriet Miers onto the Supreme Court. Thus ends Miers's bid to sport the high court's most haggard visage since John Marshall Harlan.

The *bitter defeat* Halloween obsession is, again, well documented: from Samhain history to zombies to horror movie polls.

This year, inspired by The Onion AV Club's Definitive Halloween Mix List and the vastly superior, totally free, and easily downloadable Oddio Overplay Halloween Mix, Ghoul's with Attitude, I went into my iPod and compiled a Halloween mix of my own. **UPDATE** There is also a great 70-minute Halloween mix available from the WFMU blog. [via Stereogum]

Now keep in mind that this list was made using only music that was already on the iPod as of this morning. So let's not hear any "I can't believe you didn't think of..." This was 100% spontaneous listmaking. Of course I thought of "Bela Lugosi's Dead" and "Ghost Town." Duh. Here's the full playlist:

“I Heard a Frankenstein Lives There” – Ralph Wiggum
Hells Bells - AC/DC
Human Fly - Cramps
Halloween - The Misfits
(Ghost) Riders In The Sky - Johnny Cash
Raining Blood - Slayer
Twisted Nerve - Bernard Herrmann
Children Of The Grave - Black Sabbath
Lullaby - The Cure
The Killing Moon - Echo & the Bunnymen
Return Of The Fly - The Misfits
“Dying Tickles!” – Ralph Wiggum
Phenomena theme - Goblin
Halloween II - The Misfits
Angel Of Death - Slayer
Boris The Spider - The Who
Highway To Hell - AC/DC
Sabbath Bloody Sabbath - Black Sabbath
Dead Souls - Joy Division
Shout At The Devil - Mötley Crüe
Veil Of Blood (Scream Bloody Murder) - Blood Farmers
Mother - Danzig
Psycho Killer - Talking Heads
Lost World - Lydia Lunch
Enter Sandman - Metallica

Huh. Who knew I had so much heavy metal? In that spirit, check out this Halloween interview with Slipknot's Corey Taylor. Gotta love bands that help put food on my table. Buy more Roadrunner Records, people! And in case there's no post tomorrow... HAVE A GENUINELY DISTURBING HALLOWEEN!

The Hills Are Alive with Celibate Cries

Fellow Secret Square Tye recently interviewed Weezer's Rivers Cuomo for AOL Music. (The story was picked up by Reuters, too.) Apparently, like Morrissey before him, lil' Rivers has taken a vow of celibacy. Luckily, Cuomo's brand of mind-boggling self-absorption has a hip Eastern vibe: there's no zooma-zoom-zoom in his boom-boom because all the lust interferes with his meditation.

If he keeps this up, Cuomo will join Cat "Yusef Islam" Stevens, Polly Styrene, Al Green, Prince, Michael Jackson, and many others in the League of Great Musicians Whose Careers/Music Turned to Shit Right About When They Got All Spiritual. (To be fair, Polly Styrene quit making music completely upon becoming a Jehova's Witness.) Now, it is not my intention to deride spirituality. It's just that Cuomo's self-described spiritual progression corresponds directly with the decreasing quality of Weezer's music. The great irony is that these artists always claim that their new beliefs/pursuits enrich their music. They are incorrect in most cases. Greater self-awareness and maturity are wonderful things, but they tend to inspire somewhat tepid rock 'n' roll.

Fun with blogs: Who can think of other musicians who quit/declined following a major spiritual awakening?

At least he won't have to eat in the Frank Gehry cafeteria anymore.

Heartless media giant Conde Nast has canned nice-guy bloglebrity Andrew Krucoff. It's all over Gawker today, as it is kinda-sorta their fault (but not really). In addition to supplying us with an endless supply of free punk mp3s, Señor Krucoff is the nicest guy I ever sat next to during a focus group. Really.

I'm boycotting Vanity Fair because of this. Oh, and also because of, you know... the whole being a shitty magazine thing. [Thanks for the tip, Lane.]

Everybody Loses

If the eulogies are to be believed, Tale of Two Cities is calling it quits. Today will mark both the final Half-Nelson Report and the site's last Blue States Lose column. Luckily, Blue States Lose will apparently be moving to a popular site that "begins with a "G," ends with an "R" and almost, almost rhymes with motherfucker." Let's observe a quick moment of silence. Okay, done.

*bitter defeat* Finds Religion... and Sticks It to The Man

Specifically, the management now endorses the Church of Reality. [via BoingBoing]

While we're on the topic of probable Christian heresy, Goblin Cock is another entity worthy of your adulation. If there's any doubt in your mind, perhaps you should consider their album cover:



The Killers, who are most certainly not capable of inspiring religious zeal in anyone other than Ultragrrrl, are releasing a "boxed set" of treasured B-sides, rarities, remixes... whatever. Most inessential release of the year? Probably. You are urged to avoid supporting this band. In two years they will be remembered only for the dubious achievement of making The Bravery look macho.

Can a dress code be racist? Duh. Sure. What if the dress code required that everyone wear t-shirts proclaiming, "White People Are Smarter than Minorities."? Stupid question! Okay, so is the NBA's new dress code racist? Well that's a much better question. The answer? Yeah, pretty much. Stephen Jackson thinks it's racist. And Phil Taylor thinks it's borderline. One thing's for sure: It's profoundly stupid. Like Allen Iverson's not working the thug-life vibe if you stick the dude in a suit? It's a basketball court, not a court appearance.

Right now, AI is the odds favorite to get the first fine for throwing off his slave clothes. Shit, the whole league should violate the rule in solidarity. Why should anyone be told what not to wear in order to appease white suburban audiences? The answer: because it's a business, and whitey has all the money. Ah, but the rejoinder: the dress code will have absolutely zero effect on the league's image problem. Why? Because dressing everyone all uptight with no gold chains and do-rags won't change the fact that ballhog assholes like Kobe Bryant and Allen Iverson make the game more boring. Nor will it change the fact that many ballplayers keep getting pulled over with guns and QPs of dope. Nor will it reduce the startling number of illegitimate NBA babies all over the goddamn place. Making these guys look a little less "street" when they give interviews won't change the fact that it's hard to root for some dude who suddenly got millions of dollars at age 18, has no concept of team basketball, and has no idea how to behave like a normal person.

This dress code does nothing more than reinforce the utterly moronic notion that scary negroes are the reason the NBA has an image problem. Newsflash: fuckups are the reason the NBA has an image problem. There just happen to be more blacks in the NBA, so your sample idiot population is skewed. Dress it up any way you want... "asshole" knows no color. Thick-necked racists will still have a problem with those ghetto-fabulous basketball players no matter what you do. In the end, this dress code will only help alienate the young people who make up the league's future consumer base.

Coming Soon to an Immune System in You

GiantMicrobes are the cutest thing to happen to communicable disease and human suffering since... uh... okay, they are the first cute thing to happen to communicable disease and human suffering. Anyway, you should visit the site and buy yourself an adorable plush flesh-eating bacterium. Or perhaps your very own huggable syphillis. Bad breath? Pimples? Hepatitis? e.coli? They all want your love and affection. I first came across these little guys while walking through the new SAFE exhibition at MoMA (aka, the management's day job), and I've desperately wanted chlamydia ever since.

Speaking of things falling off your body, some fun zombie news popped up in today's edition of The Onion. (The *bitter defeat* obsession with all things shambling and undead is well documented.) The management recommends this invaluable and very funny guide to full zombie-attack preparedness. The author is apparently Mel Brooks's son.

**WARNING** The following is sexist.

I don't care is she is a former Playboy Playmate, the St. Pauli girl is supposed to have large breasts!

Night of the Swedish Acid Muppets

Saw Dungen Saturday night at the Bowery Ballroom...very groovy. Lots of psychedelic groves and Black Sabbath guitars and Swedish lyrics. As my partner in Swedishness Aimee pointed out, the lead singer was like a crazy muppet. Plus, the dude was rocking out on the flute with wild-ass Robert Plant hair flying all over the place. Two thumbs way up for the Scandinavian freak rock.

First the good news: Chewbacca has finally attained U.S. citizenship.

Now the bad news: The new single from INXS Part Deux enjoyed the band's highest chart debut ever. This despite being fronted by some total ass they "won" on a reality show.

America. Such an enigma. We show such poor and limited taste... and then we grant citizenship to an 8-foot-tall Wookie with a laser crossbow. (Actually, he'll fit right in in Texas.)

**Worse news: American Analog Set is breaking up. Sucks.

I Think Noah's Ark Just Went By

Day eight of nonstop rain. There is something to this whole Seasonal Affective Disorder thing; all I've wanted to do since about Wednesday morning is eat carbohydrates and slap the shit out of anyone who looks at me crosswise.

In between bouts of spontaneous sobbing and the long minutes spent curled up under my desk in a fetal position, I couldn't help but notice that it's a pretty slow news day. Probably because everyone's so busy gathering two of each animal or pricing water wings. Hell, there isn't even any Blue States Lose today, because Tale of Two Cities seems to having bandwidth issues. That, or their servers are located in New Jersey, which is currently under water.

If this doesn't clear up by tomorrow, the management recommends rowing a canoe to the nearest tanning salon and holing up for the apocalypse. At least you'll die bronzed and cheerfull. Good luck.

HERE'S WHAT MANHATTAN WILL LOOK LIKE TOMORROW

"Your shitty music is making me barf, Loggins!"

You really must watch Yacht Rock immediately.

How do the people at Channel 101 do it? First The 'Bu, then House of Cosbys, and now this. Color me impressed.

Short + Self Important + Stupid Sunglasses = Bono

Fellow Secret Square Tye got us free floor tickets to Friday night's U2 show at Madison Square Garden. The show was... pretty cool. Good light show and Edge is a genuinely fun guitarist to watch. The crowd, on the other hand, was a complete mess. I've never seen so many white people in one place. Lots of thick necks, baseball hats, vapid girlfriends, and (this is the saddest part) U2 shirts. Like, no way, dude... you like U2??? Me too!! Let's hug!! It was "that guy" times 25,000. When the twit next to me tried to start a "Let's Go Yankees" chant, it was time to go. And Bono's whole rocker-with-a-cause schtick needs to go back in the closet with his leather vest and cowboy hat. His chants and speeches and constant, moronic pandering to "New York City!!" were embarassing.

So, basically, it was exactly what you would imagine a U2 concert to be like. Like, picture a U2 show in your head... okay! Now you've seen U2 in concert. And you saved $60. Let's hug.

**UPDATE** THE NEXT U2 ALBUM COVER

Frizziday... blah, blah, blah

The two most dangerous words in the English language? "Open" and "bar." The worst part? Fucking McDonalds stops selling breakfast at 10:30, so sausage biscuit procurement is now an impossibility. Assholes.

Luckily, it's Friday, which can mean only one thing...BLUE STATES LOSE.

In totally random news, Morrissey has named his new album. It will be called Ringleader Of The Tormentors. Uh...yyyyyyeah...ohhkay.

Have a great weekend. This will help.

**UPDATE** Is there no justice? Bono didn't get the Nobel Peace Prize. Shocker. (Remember kids, October is Sarcastics Month!)

But What About Zamfir?

Please study the above flowchart. You may be tested on it later.

After some intensive detective work (entirely on the part of others), this useful bit of wisdom was traced back to Toothpaste for Dinner. Coming soon to a right-hand navigation bar near you. [Thanks Siobhann and Hilary]

The New Voice of Indie Rock: A Draught of Vinegar, or a Fine Whine?

With the increasing popularity (among indie-yuppies and bloggers, anyway) of such bands as Modest Mouse, The Arcade Fire, Death Cab for Cutie, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, one cannot help but wonder: has the nasal whine of "quirky" vocalists reached critical mass? What was once a mark of distinction—a kind of vocal iconoclasm, if you will—has suddenly become the indie-rock calling card du jour. Despite obvious talent and the chops that come with playing in bands for most of your life, many of today's indie it-bands are bordering on self-parody thanks primarily to singers who warble away on the tattered edges of listenability.

Some would blame Neil Young's nasal, off-key kettle whistle for pushing the envelope this far. Others, perhaps, would point fingers at the art-punk chirping of early David Byrne, Television's Tom Verlaine, and even The Only Ones' Peter Perrett. And they would, in part, be correct. But while those early pioneers of borderline-annoying singing could sometimes drive neighborhood canines to suicide or give rise to spontaneous migraines amongst the club-going faithful, they also poured on frightening heaps of brash originality.

But that ship has set sail. When 60% of the indie rock community begins to sound like a swarm of mosquitoes with a severe head cold, the originality defense flies out the window. Why, then, are we shoveling endlessly fawning reviews upon "offbeat" geniuses who make a point of sounding like shit?

There is, of course, a question of degree. Modest Mouse's Isaac Brock, for example, may spend half of his time yelping like a falsetto mental patient, but he is, for the most part, a competent middle-range singer. (The same cannot be said for his lawsuit-worthy sound-alikes in Wolf Parade and The Helio Sequence, to name only two.) And while the Shins' James Mercer certainly prefers the higher ranges, he is consistently on-key and hardly ever cringe-inducing. Indeed, as any Radiohead fan will tell you, hitting the high notes is no sin in itself.

Yet consider the varying aural offenses of Alec Ounsworth (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah), Jeff Magnum (Neutral Milk Hotel), Doug Martsch (Built to Spill), Jason Lytle (Granddaddy), Dean Wareham (Luna/Galaxie 500), an countless others. Must all our indie heroes sound like wailing babies, jerking spastics, and career cold-remedy purchasers? And why, by all that is holy, add the sin of intentional wussiness to already reedy pipes? We're looking directly at you, Ben Gibbard and Colin Meloy! If you want to sound like you've suffered a swift and emasculating kick to the codpiece, there are many heavy metal bands who would be more than willing to oblige.

Of course this has much to do with the kind of temperament that draws musicians and listeners alike to the dark rooms and faded sweaters of indie rock. We are, in fact, a wimpy lot, prone to head colds, stomach aches, alcoholism, and overwrought love letters. But this is no excuse for the sudden ubiquity of "quirky nasal guy" vocalists. Where now are warm bassoes of the Magnetic Fields? What's Calvin Johnson doing? We don't need manlier men... Christ knows trogloditic chest-pounding is never the answer. What we need is some diversity. Only when whiny wailing returns to its role as one sub-generic strain of that massive non-category we call indie rock can our ears perk back up and our nosebleeds subside.

Let's all just take it down a notch before the riot grrrl bands start taking our lunch money.

Welcome to October, Bitches

Time marches on, and we have arrived in October already. The world keeps turning, Pete Doherty is detained in another drug raid, Lindsay Lohan will appear "nude" on the cover of Esquire or GQ (no discernable difference and no chance of a beaver shot anyway), yadda, yadda, yadda.

Aside from being the coolest month, thanks largely to turning leaves and the whole ghouls 'n' goblins vibe, October is also...

Halloween Safety Month (like Halloween Safety Month was going to be in fucking June?), National Celiac Awareness Month, Healthy Lung Month, Domestic Violence Awareness Month, National Family Sexuality Education Month(???), National Disability Employment Awareness Month, National Popcorn Popping Month, Adopt-A-Dog Month, Computer Learning Month, National Apple Jack Month, National Car Care Month, National Clock Month, National Cosmetology Month, National Dessert Month, National Pickled Pepper Month, National Pretzel Month, National Sarcastics Month, National Seafood Month, National Kitchen and Bath Month, Vegetarian Awareness Month, Alternate History Month(???), Animals Aloud! Month, Billiard Awareness Month, Celebrate Sun Dried Tomatoes Month, Children's Magazine Month, Diversity Awareness Month, Eat Better, Eat Together Month, Emotional Wellness Month, Lesbian History Month, Go Hog Wild! Eat Country Ham Month, Head Start Awareness Month, Health Literacy Month, International Starman Month (I swear to god!), International Strategic Planning Month, Lupus Awareness Month, National Book Month, National Chili Month, National Communicate With Your Kids Month, National Construction Toy Month, National Cookie Month, National Crime Prevention Month, National Depression Education & Awareness Month, National Disability Employment Awareness Month, National Down Syndrome Month, National "Gain The Inside Advantage" Month (Uh, what?), National Go On A Field Trip Month, National Liver Awareness Month, National Long Term Care Planning Month, National Medical Librarian Month, National Orthodontic Health Month, National Physical Therapy Month, National Pork Month, National Reading Group Month, National Roller Skating Month (Go see Roll, Bounce, people!), National Seafood Month, National Spina Bifida Awareness Month, National Sudden Infant Death Syndrome Awareness Month, National Toilet Tank Repair Month, Discover America Month, Polish American Heritage Month, Positive Attitude Month, Rett Syndrome Awareness Month, Right Brainers Rule! Month, Self-Promotion Month, Spinach Lovers Month, Talk About Prescriptions Month, Women's Small Business Month, Workplace Politics Month, and National Physical Therapy Month.

*WHEW!* Jesus christ! That's a whole lotta month.