In a two-night bender that predictably ended with me curled up in the fetal position next to my trashcan, I experienced the best and worst of Madison. From what I roughly estimated to be the beginning of my birthday on the East Coast Friday night to a little after what I am told was the end of my birthday on the West Coast Sunday morning, I lived like a king, receiving free shot after free shot, and died like an amateur — testing toilet after toilet. The details are vague and the stories haven’t quite finished floating in yet, but from what I’ve patched together, it was one hell of a birthday. Friday night started out quickly, downing four shots of Goldschlager at my apartment — only gold suits a king — and no less than 10 cups of Beast at a friend’s house party. I’ve been told by more than one of my idiotic friends that the little gold flakes in Goldschlager are what make the spirit so potent, creating tiny cuts in the throat so that the booze can flow directly into the bloodstream. I’ve never really believed them, but certainly my performance on the night suggests that there’s an element of truth to the story. I vaguely remember making my way to Amy’s Café and hearing “J?