
Hangovers, like girlfriends, acquire a certain luster as they fade into the distant past. A patina of romantic daring begins to dress up the grim facts of the matter; an invigorating sense of risk-taking adventure overtakes the more painful regrets. “Boy, I really tested the limits with that one!” you may hear yourself say. Eventually, the tenuous border between fact and fantasy dissolves altogether. For those of us not gifted athletically, there is little to boast about when recalling the days of our youth, so we turn to the creation of epic myths. What better material than tales of wretched excess?
My first hangover remains a bit of a memory blur, perhaps because at the time I was just five years old. A casual, Saturday afternoon cocktail party was winding down, the guests scattered across a “Leave It To Beaver”-ish living room, in my parents’ modest frame house on Long Island. The refreshments would have included bowls of pretzels and mixed nuts, along with my mother’s famous cheese log, which more closely resembled a cheese pancake, sprinkled with chopped pistachios. The drinks were probably potent versions of the popular favorites — dry martinis, gin and tonics, maybe rum and coke for the ladies.