2003-03-15 4:43 p.m.

Half a bottle of whiskey and a whole package of cookies. It's like a match made in heaven. Except, in this case the word "heaven" actually means "an evil scientific facility that wants to violate and ruin your stomach by giving you extra strength ipecac, dysentery–infected Mexican water, and raw chicken and pork sashimi".

Let me begin by saying that it is a bad idea to decide to drink whiskey to fall asleep. Especially if you happen to not fall asleep straight away and then decide to go out to the car to fetch the bag of cookies that you chose to leave in the car for the express purpose of keeping yourself from getting drunk and eating a whole bag of cookies and then falling asleep.

To say that I woke up feeling terrible would be quite an understatement. Sort of like saying that being knifed in the gut is slightly uncomfortable or that getting a full–frontal–nudity version of a Swedish high school yearbook would be "sort of cool, I guess". Here's the math: Jet lag times whiskey hangover equals a world of pain. The first half of my day was a double order of nausea upside down cake with a stupid side dish of dizziness. In between takes I spent a lot of time laying on the ground and looking at the ceiling. I was waiting for it to stop moving.

This is where I tracked a lot of my guitar parts. That is, when I was not busy laying on the floor and watching the ceiling spin or complaining to Christoffer about how terrible I felt.

And then there is the business of my fingers hurting. I have never played guitar so much—so many hours straight of take after take. I feel like my fingertips are going to fall off, and my burn with exhaustion.


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