My Friend, this is the Sweet Poison (Day 9)

Karl's band the Sweet Poison Victims

              That morning, sleeping on the porch was a pleasure, with cool breezes, the birds tweeting, and a brief conversation with the mailman. Drifting in and out sleep for a few hours, I finally went inside to the smell of a Matt Dowling breakfast, complete with potatoes, eggs, and orange juice. Today was to be a functional day, with a trip to the local Wal-Mart and a music superstore whose name I cannot recall. 

GD didn't feel up for the walk

                At Wal-Mart, we needed to purchase camping supplies for our journey West when we would no longer have the luxury of sleeping in our parents basement. We bought a large tent, complete set of pots and pans, plates, utensils, cups, and bowls for all, and camping stove for $160. Only in America. Then we ventured to local music store whose on the wall display of musical instruments reached a magnitude I couldn’t imagine possible. 

                As we finished our business there, Matt Dowling found out that we had been invited by Karl’s uncle Dave—a man with whom we have had many interactions over the past 4 years, mainly involving him buy us stuff—to go wine tasting on the outskirts of Indianapolis. We sampled Buck Creek’s finest wines, including peanut nur, savinon blank, and merlit. Uncle D then preceded to buy us several bottles of wine for our pleasure which we sipped around the table while making pleasant conversation.

Greg enjoying the sweet poison

                Sufficiently lubricated for the coming evening, we returned to Karl’s with his band assembled. One of the members, named Kwesi, emerged from his car with a jug containing a reddish beverage with some collection of roots and spices at the bottom. This, we learned, was called Sweet Poison, a form of Ghanan moonshine that also doubles as a disinfectant. Karl's band was named after the beverage and the chaos it had brought to their lives. I poured myself a glass and took a small sip. The alcohol burned its way from my throat to my stomach and then even out to elbows. As the rest of the Argyles took their medicine, we knew we would be in for an interesting night. 

Martov on stage at Local's Only

The Latino Metallica

                Karl’s band was playing at a nearby venue called Local’s Only. He had also landed a set for Alexei Martov. But there were six other bands on the bill, ranging from Latino heavy metal to a white rapper who had a song about his penis, nicknamed vanilla ice. We spent a lot of the time outside the venue with the locals. Kwesei was also lingering outside jug in hand. He would emerge periodically, with another glass and sly smile. “Take this. It is  good for you.” Unsure of what to make of this man, I complied again and again. Then it was time for the music. Karl's band was awesome. Such a large group of musicians onstage was definitely a treat as it gave them a complex and layered sound, although I cannot remember anything in particular about their music. But trust me, they are legit.

There was much moonshine that night

This was less than enjoyable

                My head swimming, we decided it would be a good idea for our bodies to do the same. Karl’s sister Emma and her friend had invited us for a late night at their pool. After splashing around for a bit and my failed attempts to slam-dunk on the poolside net, somebody decided it would be a good idea to shotgun some beers. In post sweet poison hubrus, I was down. I poked my hole in the can, raised the beer to my mouth, and downed it. As soon as the beer touched my lips, I knew I had made a poor decision. After finishing, I realized something was something was wrong: the beer was suspended in the limbo, no longer in my throat but seemingly unable to make its way into my stomach. I waited for the feeling to subside, but to no avail. I expelled the still-cold Keystone light into the bushes. I was a sweet poison victim.