(HELP THE MOTHERFUCKING AGED)
roll call:
shiv
jagged
aural
swiatecki
chuck(e)d
(WTF was whiney?)
As I sit here with my empty stomach, ready to get ready to get drinking again, I am uploading photos from my camera onto my computer, matching memories to images. I am contemplating:
a) should i smoke in my bedroom, when i really know that i should go outside?
b) how did i miss / turn down not one but TWO booty calls last night, so that I could keep on rocking?
c) is there really such a thing as whiskey dick?
d) how many times will I fall THIS night?
e) why don't I have any bourbon for my coffee?
f) is it physically/morally possible to continue this through the depths of friday night, saturday night, and sunday?
g) am i yr monger?
After returning from a ladyfriend's house yesterday morning, jagged and I had a leisurely mongering session: 85 cent breakfast tacos, college basketball, strong coffee with a dash of fresh whole milk, and (for me) copious cigarettes. I believe that I wrote a mongercast at some point. We got in touch with all the intown obnish, and called a cab.
TWO HOURS LATER, we gave up on the cab, and swiatecki came to rescue us. My neighbors' lovely friend Crystal needed a ride, as well, and jagged, bless his dirty heart, sat in the front seat so that we could talk. No digits, but she knows where I live . . . and damn, she smelled fine. When we dropped off Crystal, got down to Red River, got parked and headed in the right direction, we decided to hit up the daytime New West Records showcase . . . . whoops! Invitation only. This is where the mongering begins.
My good friend Jason Harper shows up with two passes. The giving bastard even suggests that WE take his passes, figure out who wants in most of jagged, swiateck, and me, and have a good time. NO FUCKING WAY. I thought there was another way. Hey chad, didn't you leave your invitation plus one in the hotel room? I thought so. It ain't 4PM and the scheming has begun. All four of us get in, and there is an open bar. A shot of Jameson and double-fisted Lonestar later, we are situated in front of The Drams (formerly Slobberbone). Perfect mongering music. Many photos were taken. Many more free beers were consumed. A lovely young thing kept bringing them to me on a tray. A drunkard's dream, if I ever did see one. My cigarette supply continues to fly into my lungs. Intermission.
DRIVE-BY fucking TRUCKERS. Cooley, Jason, and Patterson were sporting acoustic guitars, and Shonna was looking and sounding tasty. Brad and John were rocking it, but looking inconspicuous. I shouted sinkhole. they played sinkhole. i smoked. i drank. i met a divorce lawyer from austin texas named BOOZER - king monger of them all. notes were bent. cooley was three sheets to the wind, it looked. shonna and cooley pulled off of a fifth of jack, which they passed into the audience. they tried to stop playing. we demanded an encore. it was awesome. i took my picture with Shonna. It was only 6:30PM, and I was drunk.
We stumble outside, meet up with shiv, meet up with Tania. "Secret" Beastie Boys show that is already common knowledge, with a 100 yard long badge only line wrapping around Stubbs'. Something must be done. We grab Aural from the back of the line, go around to the VIP entrance, and chad works his magic again. The rest of us head down to sixth, wander around, buy hot dogs, shout at visiting mongerers, turn down several showcases with $25 covers, and go to Casino el Camino, where I do another couple of shots, run into some old friends, play a horrible game of pool, talk with Norwegian hipsters in town just for sxsw, and eventually get the call from swiateck. Beastie Boys brought it, but the night is young. I leave shiv and jagged for the moment, and go meet up with chad.
I drunkenly wheel swiateck down the street, asking COPS FOR DIRECTIONS TO THE NEXT BAR. We get there, but not with me sober. Private Party. swiatecki +1. Thank you darlin'. You look mighty purty. I do declare. Buy beer. Find out that the show is up three fights of stairs, with no elevator. Me and two bouncers wrangle chad upstairs. After I buy the beers downstairs, I realize that there is an open bar upstairs. I drink. I take pictures. The first band sucks. New Jersey. The Match Makers. Matching Green Day with suckitude. I take pictures anyways. I am ready for more. Boy am I in for it.
I run into my former salsa instructor. 5'10". Long hair. Paula. Brazilian. Swiatecki can attest to this fact. But enough of that. The Hard Lessons.
The Hard Lessons.
THE HARD LESSONS.
Brought it. I was drunk, I was driving, I was dancing, I was writhing. Sweat. Tears. Beer. Dance. Neon. Detroit. Women. Sing. Blonde. Moving. Keys. Guitar. Drums. Fuck. Move it. Guitarist on the railing, 15' over the audience. Dangles guitar. I stand on amplifiers to get closer to the stage. the managers think i am a professional photographer. i get their cards. did i mention beer? fuck. Augie jumps off the stage into the audience. 15' flat-footed. In my excitement to get a picture of him, I step backwards, forgetting that I am standing on the edge of the stage, about 6' over the stairs. I bust my back, my elbow, and my left foot, but I am down there again taking photos instantaneously. Monger. Rock. Concert, Music. Fuck. Awesome.
Show over. More photos. Talk with guitarist from Ghostland Observatory. Show him last night's photos. Talk with Hard Lessons. Get photos with them and chad. Say goodnight to brazilian dance instructor. Try to get bouncers to help get chad downstairs. Try to get bouncers to help get chad downstairs. Try to get bouncers to help chad get downstairs. Get managaer, who helps get chad downstairs. I have not started feeling my pain yet, so I carry chad downstairs. Piss, drink, leave.
Off to mongerland. Roll down street. Colin hits pothole (drunkdriver), and chad bails off the chair. Strangers help get him back up. Down to La Zona Rosa. Chad and Colin roll straight through the gate, no money exchanged, no questions asked. The man is magic for me. More beer. Hotdog. Shiv and Jagged are there. Kris Kristofferson. King Monger. Big Daddy Monger. crips vs. bloods of mongerdom. drink. think. wait. my back starts to hurt. what did i do?
DRIVE-BY MOTHERFUCKER TRUCKERS, PART TWO.
Fuck that nancy-boy acoustic guitar shit, it's like fucking with a condom (Cooley said earlier) tonight it's bare-back all night long. Electric. Drunk. Pictures. Dig through the catalog. Despite the smoking ban, me and the band are smoking. Wait, I'm smoking. Whoops. nobody gives a fuck. this is mongerdom. every person i'm blowing smoke on is just beaming at me and feeling the force. Drinks. motherfucking truckers.
it's over. i'm drunk. we have a long way to walk. my back and foot kill. we hobble. i smoke. i give a girl a cigarette (sarah - met her for a minute dead drunk and i can still remember) and got a hug and a kiss. we walk. we think. we talk. i hobble more and more. we finall reach the car, swiateck drives us home, and i go to bed without a woman for the first night in a week.
i am yr monger.
here i am, one pm, in my boxers, about to go have some more coffee and a cigarette. then i'll pop a vicodin and go do this shit all over again.
god help this town.
np: the band - the last waltz.
_________________
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.
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