|
You reach an understanding with yourself at some point - an understanding of your place in the world, your goals, talents, chances. Yesterday morning, when young ----- --- ----- was HELPING ME PUT ON MY SHOES (because my body is so bruised and shattered from the week's activities) so I could drive her back to her car at 8 in the morning (three hours after we finally went to sleep), I realized that my talents right now may be skewing towards those of the monger.
This will be a description of the events leading up to that moment, pieced together as well as I can by examining photographs and carefully reading the stains on my three-pieced suit.
My three-pieced Bill Blass may need to be burned now (or framed and hung in the museum of mongering, which i believe is located in Redlands).
Reverse chronological order may help at certain points.
Drinking two quart bottles of water in the middle of 6th street, sweating alcohol from every pore. Eating Death Metal Pizza with this sweet young thing by my side, talking with a woman who does musician referral with Barry Squire and one of his drummers, Paul Allen, who was very eager to hear about Phil moving to LA. Numbers were exchanged. I have a card for Phil. How did I manage to network for a fellow Ob so far into my night of depravity?
Snapshot:
Colin, drunk as sin, in his three piece suit, asks to sit in with a drum circle of dirty hippies. They do allow. These fuckers knew what they were doing, with time signature changes and call and response and all else, and there's Colin, drunk, sitting on a trashcan, vest and shirt-tails, with friend holding my coat, bashing the everloving shit out of a trashcan in the name of lord knows what or why. People dance. A couple of old (i mean ancient) school breakdancers show up and start breakdancing. The girl I will be going home with is dancing barefoot in the street.
Earlier:
Sitting in a bar with FT and shiv. We are already approaching catastrophically drunk. Bob opens up a bar tab (god bless him) and buys me drinks. I feel awkward about that, so I keep on buying drinks on the side. The suit looks considerably less rumpled at this point in the day. It's a nice little bar, and not crowded, because we've walked into the "closed" upstairs like we belonged there. I chat with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, the parents of Luke Morrison, my bartender for the evening. They are down from Oklahoma, and are having a blast. They never ask me to explain the suit. Good times. K----, L----, and S----, the coeds from S--------- show up, even though we had left them at another bar a couple of hours ago. We dance to a mediocre band called Meridian West. A couple of people get mad at us dancing - okay, writhing - in such confined quarters. I turn on my best headlamp smile and tough guy gives up.
Later:
Standing in the middle of the street with my companion, shiv, and another girl. Talking to drunken obnoxious frat boys who are hooting at women that walk past and complaining about not getting laid. I give etiquette lesson, suggesting that howling may work in certain primate species, but that in ours, a remarkable amount of ground may be covered by dressing up and talking slow. Rather than getting the shit kicked out of me by the frat boys, we all end up laughing painfully hard. I turn away, they go back to howling at women as they walk by. You can take a horse's ass to water, but . . .
earlier:
Dinner at the Jackalope, my steadfast companion in mongering this week. Shot of Power's and a water. Shot of Power's and a water. Shot of Power's and a water. PBR. PBR. PBR. Beautifully greasy hamburger. I am lit up and feeling fine. I meet the young women who FT, shiv, and I will be coming in and out of contact with all night, and the dancing begins. She has a brand new tattoo of circling orioles covering much of her right side. This is a good night. Can I buy one of you ladies a drink?
later:
Shiv drops me and ----- off at my house. FT is passed out in the rental car in my driveway, having decided that he can't monger quite as well as the younger guys on so little sleep. I introduce the two, get FT an air mattress, and head upstairs.
four hours later:
My alarm, my cell phone, and her cell phone all go off. My back hurts from my fall so badly that I can hardly turn over. My hands are swollen into mittens from the street drumming. I have a huge bruise on the back of my left forearm. She coos over me, and helps me on with my shoes.
16 hours earlier:
Chad and I get to the Red-Eyed Fly, bright eyed and bushy-tailed. My suit is crisp and clean. I have two beers, then decide that I should get something to eat before the Deathray Davies start playing. That's right, folks, beer before breakfast. It seems like it's been this way all week long. I walk down the street and get some death metal pizza. When I return, FT has arrived in town. The Deathray Davies BRING IT, and I start the day's photographic evidence. drinking, smoking, and womanizing commence as both chad and i start making pretty eyes at the same lady. he may have won this battle, but i do have her number (and a couple of others that aggregated during the day). Brian Jonestown Massacre cancels, so Anton brings out a band called The Black Angels and plays a 20 minute jam with them, then comes off the stage, takes his shirt off, and lights a joint with my cigarette lighter. rock. The Black Angels were really good, as well. Local band working on their '06 release. My best descrition so far removed from the actual music by time and alcohol is "Velvet Undergroundy". Then came she wants revenge. Not terrible, but meh. Girls were loving it, though. The day of mongering was just beginning.
as always, i'm yr monger.
colin
_________________
Radcliffe Wrote: I'm kinda like Jesus in that respect. And Allah. Jesus and Allah all rolled up into a single ball of seething bitter rage.
|
