One night benders - no matter the drug - used to be a ton of fun, but I was never really sure why. You would eventually hit a point where all you want to do is pass out, be left alone, and wake up in your bed as if nothing had happened.
Of course, you know exactly how you arrived at this point. The night was electric. "The jam kids on the Vespas" and all of that. Crowded streets. Even more crowded bars or house parties. You felt alive. You grabbed the bottle for another swig, a pill there, a toke here. The night was going to be memorable one way or the other.
Then, it all hit you like a ton of bricks. You shouldn't have had that last drink or eaten that mushroom. This rock 'n roll lifestyle is old and not really that rewarding. So, you want out. You wanted to pass out on the couch.
Maybe you did pass out on the couch or in the kitchen or by the toilet or in the back of a car. No matter. If you could have just laid there with no distractions, you could have slept it off.
However, this was the night that would never end. Some late-comers entered with fresh cases of beer, a bag of weed, and some blow. You probably couldn't pick yourself up to join them at that moment, but you also couldn't drag yourself out of the room. You weren't just fucked, you were fucked and had to suffer while these douche-bags turned up the stereo and started the whole night over for you.
At this point in the evening (or morning) the room was spinning and you had lost complete and utter control. At best, you eventually passed out and snuck in a couple hours of sleep before slipping out without anyone noticing. At worst, and most likely, you puked all over the place. Someone cleaned you up and arranged for a ride home. Hopefully, you were just able to sleep in your own bed.
That's the Fillmore Jive.
