Hank's head--August, 1999

God proves what a funny, funny guy he is: the Sacramento News and Review for the week Hank gashed his head.
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So, the day started fairly festively for me and by the time Hank showed up at 5:30 at the first party, I was already pretty tossed. We loaded up into the Celica, me still wearing my festive Hawaiian attire (note that as predicted, nobody said shit about a 6'2" guy tottering through the AM/PM on X street in the middle of the day in a grass skirt). The drive up to Penn Valley seemed to take a long time, but there was plenty nifty scenery. About three miles or so from our destination we headed over this dam which created a small manmade lake which simply screamed out to be swum in by a bunch of drunk people--I being in a state to judge what drunk people would consider Good Fun.

So the party progresses. Beer is drunk. Dinner is eaten. Pot is smoked. Captain Morgan's is shot and the moonshine is broken out. Debauchery ensues. People are playing strip basketball. Strip basketball? Did I actually see that? I'm so out of my head, I'm surprised I didn't see pink elephants refereeing. I fall down. Everybody falls down--we're camped on the edge of a construction site. Did I mention we'd been drinking? During at least some part of the afternoon's festvities I meet this girl Melody who was also having a serious power thought: swimfest. Soon, the both of us were working in tandem to plant the seeds of a massive exodus down to the water for a midnight adventure.

Eventually we can wait no more. We find that we have but one sober driver in a group of about 25 or so (hey!) and six of us pile into Wildfire's Taurus for a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride through the foothills and off to the water. Now, by this time, I am quite intoxicated and all I really remember is being pretty motion sick. We get to our destination and everyone piles out and heads for the hills. I pile out and try to keep the last eight hours down where they belong.

Suddenly, there's great shouts and they're instantly back--as if they were playing a game of "pickle" only to find that the opposite baseman had the ball. Hank's holding his head and somebody is saying "you don't have to be sorry--it wasn't your fault." Everybody loads back into the car and we blaze back to the ranch (not to be confused with THE Ranch). Bit by bit the story comes out: Hank and Brendan spied the river below us and went tear-assing through the countryside towards it. Hank stumbled down the embankment and managed to fall head first into a barbed wire fence, opening about a 4 1/2" gash in his scalp. Another few strides and both Hank and Brendan would have been going to the hospital for tetnus shots, and another inch or two forward and we'd be calling Hank "Patch".

Now, I've been riding bitch on the way back and am really not feeling at all well. I stumble blindly through the dark trying to regain some sense of equilibrium when I hear shouts for "Charlie Bill! Charlie Bill!" I choke down my stomach enough to reply weakly. "You need to go the hospital with Hank." Apparently Brendan's sister Claire who is the head nurse at a local geriatric hospital had taken a good look at Hank's head and pronounced him "boy most likely to get stitches".

And another car ride. Stephen King was right: hell is repitition.

So, Laura, Hank and I go rolling back down Highway 20 en route to Grass Valley and the small hospital there. I've been in enough of these foothill hospitals that I'm thinking about compiling a guide: hours, facilities (cable teevee in Grass Valley and a really nice outside smokers lounge). We get Hank into the process of checking in and hear him say to the orderly filling out paperwork:

"Well, I'm not that drunk."

What he was being asked, we'll never know. Laura and I spend several happy hours keeping the chairs in the waiting room down and watching lotsa teevee. Its a gorgeous night out, so we spend some time enjoying the night air and catching up on old times. Frankly, I'm glad the waiting room cleared out after we got there--I was super drunk and probably more than a little offensive to the folks who are sitting there wondering if Uncle Bob is ever going to regain consciousness or little Bobby is going to get his kidney transplant. What the hell am I thinking? I remember now that the ER was full of busted up drunk people. Hell, the woman sitting next to us in the waiting room was form Santa Rosa for crissakes.

They patch Hank up and tell us "you may want to help your friend up." I thought, sure, okay--thinking that he'd been medicated before they put the stitches to him. Au contraire, mon frere. They were looking for assistance in lugging his drunk ass around--like I would have been much help at that. They overlooked the first rule in any rescue/evacuation type situation: don't make more victims.

So, the score all settled: Hank gets fifteen stitches and decides to shave his head bald to match the funny spot where there used to be hair. The fields around Penn Valley get to keep Hank's brand new pair of glasses. Laura manages not to have her car look like it came from the Shining and the hospital gets to fill out a bunch of paperwork. Nobody goes swimming and everyone is passed out when we return at about 2:30 am except for Melody and Brendan (mmmhmmm...)

There's pictures of the damage available for those of you with a strong constitution. I've got some good ones of the ER on film, I think. Maybe I'll post 'em here if I ever get 'em developed.