You Can Call Me
Ralph Pt. Deux

by RAF KATIGBAK

So where did we leave off? Oh yeah. We were talking about life-changing dilemmas and a question was in the air: to puke or not to puke. For those of you who skipped last week’s column, let me catch you up. It was a Friday night two weeks ago and in a misguided attempt to get healthy, I had ingested a copious amount of protein powder and topped it off with a nice steak sandwich, the combination of which made me feel like I had just been blindsided by a football player made entirely of barf. I was dizzy, sweaty, running a slight temperature and completely nauseous. Apparently there’s such a thing as protein overdose, and I had it.

Now, under normal circumstances, there is no question what I would have done. I am a firm believer that any problem can be solved simply by lying in bed and totally ignoring it. But these were not normal circumstances. You see, this horrible feeling happened exactly one hour before the Ramones cover band that I was asked to play drums for was supposed to take the stage and perform. Since I was not about to pussy out, ditch the show and leave my bandmates to do an unplugged version of “This Ain’t Havana” (totally underrated tune, btw) in front of a room of rather rambunctious and drunk people, I was faced with two options: hold it in and play the show in the hopes that it would go away, but with more than a slight possibility of actually throwing up during the set, or just get it over with now and make myself hork, in the hopes that I would feel immediately better and the show could go on unhindered by spewage…

Throwing up is weird. I hate it. But it’s one of those things that I dread every second leading up to the act, but once it’s done, I feel a million times better. Like doing my dishes or confessing to my mom that her sewing machine smells like urine not because of the cat, but because I got so drunk on the weekend, I could have sworn it was the toilet when I got up in the middle of the night.

Also, puking makes you feel really vulnerable. It’s really one of those humbling situations where your guard is down and you can’t deny your humanness. While sometimes it can be a bit disturbing to see someone you really admire delivering pavement pizza behind a tour bus in an empty parking lot of a strip mall, it can also be a great test of friendship. In college, I clearly remember kneeling down and holding my female friend’s hair while she yakked relentlessly after a night of partying. I’ll never forget the moment when she was done and she looked up with these sincere eyes and said, “Thanks for staying with me, you’re my best friend.” And then a chunk of Goldschlager-soaked burrito fell off her lower lip and onto my lap.

I decided I needed to puke. Yes, it’s humbling and embarrassing, but fuck it. I wasn’t gonna let this hurly feeling come between me and a good time. Only problem is, I don’t know how to puke. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve tossed my fair share of cookies before. But I had never actually made myself throw up before. Sure, obviously there’s the classic finger in the throat motion. But that seemed so cliché. Plus, I was about to drum and the last thing I wanted was my hand to be all barfy. I quickly took a poll outside the venue and found out there were so many people who had their own ways to puke. “Use a toothbrush!” “Make burpy noises!” “Think of something gross!” “Drink lots of saltwater!” “Eat charcoal!” “Smell dog poo!” Pretty soon I had a veritable smorgasbord (smorgasbarf?) of options.

In the end, I figured if I was gonna do it, I was gonna go classic. Two fingers, down the throat, pushing the magic button to release the gastro geyser. This is okay, I thought, this is rock ’n’ roll. I went into the bathroom and pointed two fingers out and I raised it up. I slowly put the barrel of this imaginary gun into my mouth, past the lips and teeth and over my tongue. Then I thought: fuck this. This sucks. This isn’t rock ’n’ roll. Who does this shit? The Spice Girls and Ashlee Simpson, that’s who. If I’m going out, I’m going out in a blaze of drumbeats, crash cymbals and vomit in the middle of my set and I won’t miss a beat. Now that’s rock ’n’ roll.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA