I am the least reliable narrator when it comes to the story of my brain exploding. This is because, from the time right before I suffered a freakish brain hemorrhage last year to the time I regained full consciousness roughly two weeks later, I remember nothing. My mind is an absolute blank. It's like the fabled pause in the Nixon Tapes. I was not here. That time of my life may as well not exist. Oh, but it did.
I remember hosting the Deadspin Awards in New York the night of Dec. 5 and then heading over to a karaoke bar for a staff after-party, where I ate some pizza, drank a beer, sang one song (Tom Petty's "You Got Lucky," which would soon prove either fitting or ironic, depending upon your perspective), and that's it. After that comes a great void. I don't remember inexplicably collapsing in a hallway, fracturing my skull because I had no way to brace myself for the impact. I don't remember sitting up after that, my co-workers alarmed at the sight of blood trickling out of the back of my head. I don't remember puking all over Barry Petchesky's pants, vomit being one of many fun side effects of your brain exploding, as he held my head upright to keep me from choking on my own barf. I don't remember Kiran Chitanvis quickly calling 911 to get me help. I don't remember getting into an ambulance with Victor Jeffreys and riding to an uptown hospital, with Victor begging me for the passcode to my phone so that he could call my wife. He says I made an honest effort to help, but my circuits had already shorted out and I ended up giving him sequences of four digits that had NOTHING to do with the code. Flustered, he asked me for my wife's phone number outright. Instead, I unwittingly gave him a series of 10 digits unrelated to the number he sought.
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https://theconcourse.deadspin.com/the-night-the-lights-went-out-1834298070
