No. 651 – You Sure Love to Ball

Performer: Marvin Gaye

Songwriter: Marvin Gaye

Original Release: Let’s Get It On

Year: 1973

Definitive Version: None

For Labor Day weekend, Laurie and I usually visit Laurie’s uncle at his summer place in Michigan. The only time we didn’t was in 2007. That year, Laurie wanted to visit him at his winter home in North Carolina, which we scheduled for October, so Laurie thought there was no need to go to Michigan a month earlier, too.

So we stayed home, which was fine with me. We had moved into our new apartment in June, and we really hadn’t spent a lot of time there. I’m pretty sure that we had at least unpacked and gotten rid of most of the boxes that had been stacked up in the dining room and especially out on the back porch.

Laurie wanted to have a few friends over Friday night to kick off the Labor Day weekend as sort of a housewarming get-together. I put a range of music on the old CD player, including this album. (For the record, I think I also had The Gipsy Kings on there, Loreena McKennitt, Dire Straits and Yes. Like I said, a range.)

It turned out to be something of an impromptu party, because a couple of friends brought other friends, and when the smokers in the group wanted to go downstairs to the backyard, we connected with our neighbors from the apartment below. The next thing you know, they were up in our apartment, too.

The adult refreshments were flowing, and I think I went through three bottles of wine—not by myself but all told. Laurie put out a bunch of pupus, and we blew through all of those. By the time everyone left, it was after 3 in the morning. It had been a great little bash.

The next day I experienced a great little bash of my own—in my head. I woke up with wickedest hangovers I ever experienced—you know, one of those where you just try to find a position where your head feels like it won’t explode.

I honestly couldn’t figure out why I felt that way. I mean, I know why, but it didn’t add up. I ate a lot, so I had laid the proper base. And I had five glasses of wine. Granted they were Bordeaux glass pours, but that’s, what, a bottle, perhaps a little more over a span of seven hours? Perhaps I had more to drink than I thought I did, but I certainly have had more to drink than that before (and since) without the same dire consequences.

Whatever the cause, even though I did all the usual hangover helpers, like eat breakfast, down Advil and have a shower, which almost always work quickly, nothing helped. By mid-afternoon, the only thing I literally could do was sit on the couch in the living room—that apparently was the magic position—and watch Roger Federer play in the U.S. Open. Laurie was at rehearsal, and I was glad that I could just turn off my brain and watch like a zombie. 

Either the dozen or so Advil I had taken that day finally kicked in or I was lulled by the ponk … ponk … ponk rhythm of the tennis match punctuated by the occasional burst of staccato applause, but my zombie state eventually waned. By the time Laurie came home and we prepared to go out for dinner that night, I was back to normal. I even had wine with dinner.

Got to get right back on that horse, you know.