There are lots of weeks when I have no idea what to write about. The preceding week goes by without many exclamation marks, and it's useless to talk about the ongoing whys, wherefores and whosaidwhats of this bothered election still a long, long way away.

But I still figure something out most weeks. Except last week. You see, I was rather sick last week. Puking up whatever I tried to drink down (including water, coffee and, well, that's all I tried), I couldn't concentrate very well at all and eventually just went back to bed for a few more hours. I did get to the point where I could eat a bit and keep it down. You know that feverish thought that, somehow, your stomach will be stuck in reverse for eternity? Yeah, me too.

I had been out on the Nob Hill the night before with a friend. We'd started out rather easily (a salad, sandwich and a few beers), but, because it was Saturday night and neither of us was ready to move on, she suggested something called a rum runner at another bar a few blocks away from the Irish Pub we'd started out at.

A rum runner is basically a slushy with alcohol in it. And I think, somehow, we got doubles (if this is possible). You might have figured out where this is going. Sometime in the middle of the night I realized I was going to be rather hungover when morning time came around. I drank some water to make it not so bad. But someone poisoned my rum runner(s, plural, because we had two each), and there was no averting the horrors of last Sunday.

About every six months or so, I seem to push it over the edge. It's not always a Saturday night, but it does seem to fall around a full moon. And I actually keep track of these types of things, so I knew it was a full moon. Something to that strange pull of Earth's natural satellite. But really, it was the rum runners at the end of what should have stayed a beer drinking night.

A quick synopsis of what was going through my head a week ago: ahagarrhggnnnhghh, bleashebdbleh. See, you didn't miss nothing.

It's not like I broke up Van Halen (again). Or became the worst-selling American Idol champ ever. Or couldn't get tickets to the super special Shins show in April (oh wait, I couldn't...).

But I did disappoint myself, because I don't think I've ever cancelled the Sunday morning coming down column because of a hangover (if I did, I've apparently blacked it out). Sometimes, well, we have to own up to our downturns.

For some, this can be a really good career move. Lately there seems to be a steady run of apologies and rehab check ins. No matter what you do wrong, it seems like you have to go to rehab to get right. Which is weird, because, usually, it's something someone says--not necessarily something someone drank or ingested or shot up. But maybe if you go into rehab they'll tell you how to keep your damn fool mouth shut when something stupid is about to come out of it. I'm not going to rehab. I already have my couple of days a week of being a non-drinker. Moderation is key, and when you are not a moderate, well, punishment is not far behind. Hence, well, y'know...

I will say, unequivocally, that I'm staying away from the rum runners. I've never had great luck with rum anyway (my one extreme night of drinking in college involved a bottle of rum and spewing chunks all over my dorm room), so it should be easy.

All this temperance talk is just in time for St. Patrick's Day. Or, as the people at Guinness like to call it, the St. Patrick's Season. One of the many semi-cultural holidays we in America celebrate by getting stinking drunk (in the name of the Irish this time). There is, of course, Cinco de Mayo as well (toasting our neighbors to the south). Along with Memorial Day (this one's for the dead), Labor Day (raise one for the working slob) and Columbus Day (straight up for the man who found a land that wasn't actually missing--which is a cause for drinking if there ever was one). And there are many more.

Where was I? What was my point? Oh yeah. Beer. Stick with beer on Saturday night. Oh, and just one more tip, the cops know you've been drinking if you piss green.

Matt Worley has a pinch of the Irish in him.