Performer: Led Zeppelin
Songwriters: John Paul
Jones, Jimmy Page
Original
Release:
Led Zeppelin
Year: 1969
Definitive
Version:
None
And
speaking of playing hard and living to tell the tale …
If
the tenet “When the Women Don’t Understand, Led Understands,” were a castle, this
song would be one of the twin edifices guarding the main gate, paired with Hey
Hey What Can I Do? And I had this song on my mind when I tested the limits of
my despair over losing Beth in the summer of 1987.
The
infamous summer night started out innocently enough, well, as innocently as any
night that would be devoted to drinking on the Ohio State campus with friends
could be. I was home in Columbus for a brief spell in between my internship at
YMCA of the USA and the start of my final quarter at Northwestern, when Mike,
Steve and I got together.
At
one time, the drinking nexus at OSU was Papa Joe’s and Mustard’s, across High
Street from one another, in the area called South Campus. Among the bars in
that area was the less crowded Spring Break, which sold $5 two-gallon pails of
beer.
I
had started to drink only the previous fall, and I wasn’t anything like a
regular, so my tolerance was low. (It certainly wasn’t what it would be by an
infamous party in Flint seven years later.) Three guys, one two-gallon pail:
You do the math.
The
evening was a blast. We talked about everything, joked and just had a great
time hanging out. Eventually, the pail emptied, and we got more beer. That
final beer was irrelevant, because I already had passed the point of no return.
I think the sight of me staggering around the back porch trying to find the
exit convinced everyone that it was time to leave.
Mike
drove—his new Acura—Steve rode shotgun and I was in the back. Steve lived close
to the Condo, so Mike drove up I-315 to take us both home. I don’t remember
what triggered it per se beyond the mere influence of alcohol, but all of a
sudden, I decided now was time to tap the pain that I had stuffed down for
months.
I
started crying inconsolably, asking the burning question: Why? Why did Beth
leave me? (The answer was obvious, of course, as I’ll explain later, but work
with me here.) Steve climbed between the seats into the back and put his arm
around me, telling me, it’ll be all right; it’ll be all right.
As
soon as I let loose emotionally, it was time for my body to catch up. I was
aware enough of my condition that I announced soberly, “Mike. Better pull over
now.” He did, not far from Riverside Methodist Hospital. I opened the door and
leaned out with Steve giving me a helpful push from the back and eliminated the
some 100 ounces of beer that I had quaffed that night.
We
made it to the Condo with no further incident, although I’m pretty sure I got
sick once more after I got home.
The
next day, I didn’t feel too bad. I didn’t have a hangover, and I don’t recall
feeling particularly depleted. I definitely didn’t feel like having another drink
though. When I went to my car, I found a note under a windshield wiper courtesy
of Mike and Steve. It was a pencil drawing on a sheet of lined notebook paper that
included a foamy beer mug and the statement, “Shwill-eye lives!”
I
lived, indeed, and thrived even. Mike and Steve, I found out later, had brutal
hangovers, probably because they hadn’t purged the evil humors from their body
the way I had.
I
also felt better emotionally. Soon after that incident, Jessica and I hooked
up, officially breaking the ice in my post-Beth world, and I resolved that one
day I’d make Beth pay for the great big hole in my heart, which only then
finally began to heal.
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