Biblitz delivers advise

ASK Biblitz about Hangovers.

... it is as if the Last Trump had sounded and Judgment Day set in with unusual severity.


WELCOME!

Biblitz asks, what recommendations have you for the post-party humdrums affectionately referred to as the hangover?

Biblitz will post solutions to this ancient dilemma as soon as they come in! Please check back soon for updates.

In the meantime, one may take solace in the excellent company with whom one shares this fleeting sorrow.

TinyTeaman rightHoBiblitz


The Party's Over

Music by Jule Styne
Words by Betty Comden and Adolph Green


The party's over
It's time to call it a day
No matter how you pretend
You knew it would end this way
It's time to wind up the masquerade
Just make your mind up the piper must be paid



The party's over
The candles flicker and dim
You danced and dreamed through the night
It seemed to be right just being with him
Now you must wake up, all dreams must end
Take off your makeup, the party's over
It's all over, my friend ...

The Bukowski / Purdy Letters

1944-1974

Paperback

March 14th, 1965
New Orleans

Dear Al -

This won't be much letter. Sick, sick, sitting here shaking and frightened and cowardly and depressed. I have hurt almost everybody's feelings. I am not a very good drunk. And it's the same when I awaken here as anywhere. I only want sweet peace and kindliness when I awaken - but there's always some finger pointing, telling me some terrible deed I committed during the night. It seems I make a lot of mistakes and it seems that I am not allowed any. The finger used to belong to my father, or to a shack-job, and now it's an editor's finger. But it's the same. For Christ's sake, Al, I don't understand people, never will. It looks like I got to travel pretty much alone.

Mar 19/65

Dear Chas -

I mean Black Night of the Soul Buk:

What the hell, we all do that every now and then. Remember being shown off to a bunch of high school teachers at a party that was pretty grim. After an hour or so of silently getting drunk I did the same, used all the four-letter words etc. My friend thought I should apologize the next day - So we all get that way once in a while - Admittedly, this instance I give is not the same as yours, but it has similar points -

What the hell - ... (-- pgs. 51-52)

demandezBiblitz

Right Ho, Jeeves

Hardcover

By P.G. Wodehouse

I have had occasion, I fancy, to speak before now of these pick-me-ups of Jeeves's and their effect on a fellow who is hanging to life by a thread on the morning after. What they consist of, I couldn't tell you. He says some kind of sauce, the yolk of a raw egg and a dash of red pepper, but nothing will convince me that the thing doesn't go much deeper than that. Be that as it may, however, the results of swallowing one are amazing.

For perhaps the split part of a second nothing happens. It is as though all Nature waited breathless. Then, suddenly, it is as if the Last Trump had sounded and Judgment Day set in with unusual severity.

Bonfires burst out in all parts of the frame. The abdomen becomes heavily charged with molten lava. A great wind seems to blow through the world, and the subject is aware of something resembling a steam hammer striking the back of the head. During this phase, the ears ring loudly, the eyeballs rotate and there is a tingling about the brow.

And then, just as you are feeling that you ought to ring up your lawyer and see that your affairs are in order before it is too late, the whole situation seems to clarify. The wind drops. The ears cease to ring. Birds twitter. Brass bands start playing. The sun comes up over the horizon with a jerk.

And a moment later all you are conscious of is a great peace. (-- p. 48)

Cannery Row

Paperback

By John Steinbeck

More of this charming literary classic.

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Doc awakened very slowly and clumsily like a fat man getting out of a swimming pool. His mind broke the surface and fell back several times. There was red lipstick on his beard. He opened one eye, saw the brilliant colors of the quilt and closed his eye quickly. But after awhile he looked again. His eye went past the quilt to the floor, to the broken plate in the corner, to the glasses standing on the table turned over on the floor, to the spilled wine and the books like heavy fallen butterflies. There were little bits of curled red paper all over the place and sharp smell of firecrackers. He could see through the kitchen door to the steak plates stacked high and the skillets deep in grease. Hundreds of cigarette butts were stamped on the floor. And under the firecracker smell was a fine combination of wine and whiskey and perfume. His eye stopped for a moment on a little pile of hairpins in the middle of the floor.



He rolled over slowly and supporting himself on one elbow he looked out the broken window. ... (From Chapter 32, p. 193)