Last week the Scene’s staff took on one of those perilous assignments that makes the job a hazard: We went drinking. We chased cocktails from East Nashville to Germantown. We downed bourbon and Coke with potentially allergenic peanuts and guzzled fireballs — the real eyebrow-singeing thing, not that 66-proof dose of liquid Red Hots. We chowed down on hot chicken and doused the great atomic bird with stout pours of Jackalope Rompo and Yazoo Summer Ale. Hell, we drank beer from a dog bowl — the famous birthday bowl at Hillsboro Village’s Villager Tavern, no less. (Somebody please tell us that thing gets washed once in a while.)
After all those cocktails, shots and brews, we have come to one conclusion, one grand summation of our week cut loose on Nashville’s drinking scene.
We don’t feel so good.
Ugh, the hangover. The skull that throbs like Deadmau5’s helmet. The aching limbs. The lurching, gurgling stomach, pounding its shoe to be recognized ahead of your pickled liver and your straining kidneys. Every movement plants a knife blade behind your eyes. Every noise amplifies like someone crunching that canoe-sized stalk of celery Woody Allen lugs around in Sleeper. You try to sleep it off, but when you close your eyes you might as well be in Mammoth Cave with a marching band and a horny rhino.
What to do? It seemed logical to (continue reading at NashvilleScene)