Inventory:

Two Hands, bruised and swollen, with blood blisters from street drumming.
One large contusion, approximately 5x7" on left forearm, from god-knows where.
One dime-sized scab on right elbow.
One large scrape along the spine.
One swollen contusion in the muscles directly up and left of the coccyx.
Left knee, swollen.
Approximately seven bruises on both shins combined.
Hundreds of dollars spent.
8 ladies' numbers received.
Dozens of copies of my number given out.
4 nights spent accompanied.
two thousand photos taken.
Me in pictures with about ten or so bands.
Power's Irish Whisky: many - 30 or 40 shots total
Jameson: fewer, but substantial
Gin and Tonic: 15-20
Vodka and Tonic: less than 5
Vodka and Red Bull: one
Pabst Blue Ribbon: shit . . . dozens.
Foster's: one
Red Stripe: one
Guinness: one
Lone Star: probably about two dozen fewer than PBR, but still substantial.
Slices of Pizza: 15-20
Bratwurst: about 5
Vicodin: 1
Excedrin: 4 (cuz I want to feel the pain and then kill it with the alcohol)
Mystery beverages I finished for others: around 10
Drinks I'm forgetting about: probably around 20
Cartons of cigarettes consumed: at least 2
Bars I smoked inside of illegally: 3
miles spent walking home last night while wobbly drunk: approximately 3.4
fights: none
hangovers: none
earplugs lost: none
guitar strings seen broken: about eight
guitars thrown/handed off stage: 9-10

That will suffice for now. Off to get a coffee and a smoke.

The day started off with rain. Three hours of sleep. She helps me put my shoes on. She must help me with my shoes because two nights before I fell off of a stage and busted up my back. When I rolled over to check the alarm clock I gasped audibly, and she cooed over me. Kindness of strangers, and such.

Three hours of sleep, and it's time to go get her car, so she can drive to a friend's house (she doesn't know where it is) and drive back out of state. I get her there, and there she went.

Back to my house, where FT is still in bed on the air mattress. Three hours sleep, and I think I must still be drunk. I pass out for about an hour, when Bob wakes me up. Time to get him to the airport, so he can drop off the rental car and then I'll drive him to a Mickey D's on I-35 so he can meet his wife and fam-bly. The rain comes down in sheets, and for some reason I don't know where I am going, despite the fact that this is my town, and my part of town at that. I drop Bob off and meet swiateck at Juan In A Million for breakfast.

Chad and I talk about the previous night's engagements. Swiateck is a monger of the highest degree, and the filly who took a shine to him is gorgeous. We eat, and I feel the pain seeping back into my joints. All is well, and it is raining.

We drive back to my place so I can get my camera, change clothes, and prepare for mongering of the finest form.

swiateck drops me off at 7th and Red River, gives me his press pass, and wishes me blessings on this, the final day of my rampage.

I walk, with my umbrella, to Emo's at the corner of 6th and Red River. What is the likelyhood that I will lose my umbrella this day? I am fairly sure that it will happen. The camera is like an appendage, but the umbrella? Does it stand a chance?

np: the drive-by truckers - aftermath USA (appropriate)

Emo's IV, not yet 2PM.

Shot of Power's and a water.

Shot of Power's and a water.

Shot of Power's and a water.

Okay, let's listen to some music.

nO things (ex Liars rhythm section) started off the day early (but got on late). Wrenching, thumping noise - punk played with a surgeon's touch. I got a lot of good photos.

I went up and got another shot of Power's, a water back, and a PBR, and went outside to have a smoke and chat with the guys from nO things. They were very gracious and cool, and will be eager to see a couple of the photos that I took.

I went back inside, and music was playing, but not coming from the stage. I didn't know what the hell was going on, so I tried to talk with Jim Eno from Spoon, and he brushed me off. Finally I figured that the noise going on was coming from a guy writhing around on the floor with a microphone, and his iPod lying on the edge of the stage and the contact triggers attached to his wrists - this was Panther, and I have no idea where he was from.

The next band on, now that I was getting all nice and lit up, was called Wooden Wand and the Vanishing Voice, from Brooklyn. I think that they are all in other bands, and stuff, but I don't really care to do the research right now, as my liver has just escaped screaming through my asshole and the week's cumulative events may require my hospitalization soon. We'll see. They sang dirtied up psych-folk-punk-country and I took photographs as if I were supposed to be there, everything was fine.

Next up - more beer? - I don't remember the tally at this point - was Sam Champion. Not some lousy singer-songwriter, but one of the best surprises that I've had this week. Nice, loud rock - The Who and Pavement might be two touchstones that spring to mind. The guys flailed around stage and generally brought it, and I flailed around the pit taking pictures, spilling beer, and working on my mongering. I recommend checking these guys out, they were a great live act.

Next year can i have a press pass that says merely "monger" and has a picture of gravy spilled all over my bare chest, one hand holding a half-eaten biscuit sodden in the midst of it?

How can we possibly step it up another notch? How can we move from devastation to devastation...er?

By bringing out The Gossip. They killed. Punk & soul music. Three piece. Female vox, male guitarist, left-handed chick drummer. Rawk. Big sound for just a three-piece. More photographs. Mind degenerating. Drink beer. Dance a little bit. Sweating. Reek of alcohol permeates my jacket. I'm thinking . . . there's a smoking ban. I want to smoke. There's a smoking ban. I want to smoke. "Take my advice and listen up/ Don't be a fool like the rest of us . . . on the playground/ You learn so much." Dance to it. Awesome.

Standing to the side of the stage, The Giraffes are about to go on. They've been rocking out to The Gossip with smiles on their faces, and I wise-assedly crack to the lead singer that it suck that they have such a hard act to follow, and he laughingly tells me to fuck off - "I don't know how to sing, and I have to follow fucking Janis Joplin with a good voice, man. Shit." They climb on stage and start playing dumb crazy hard rock. They flail all around the stage. The drummer hawks a huge oyster of a loogie and spits it on the guitarist. The lead singer repeatedly hits the crash cymbal . . . with his head. He comes over and takes a swig of my beer, and hands it back to me. A minute later he comes over and takes my beer, pours part of it over his head, pours part of it over the guitarists head. Takes a mouthful and sprays the audience. Mimes ejaculating spurts of beer onto the audience. Crushes the can and throws it into the audience. Flails. Takes a cigarette and lighter from an audience member. Lights the cigarette, takes one drag, throws it into the audience. Throws the lighter into the audience. Walks over, hauls off and kicks the front of the kick drum. hard. They are spent. They walk off the stage, and I go outside to smoke with the guitarist. I'll buy you a shot if you buy me a beer, man. It's on. The bartender is so tickled to see me still buying shots of Power's that he does a round with us, on him. I walk away from the bar and the lead singer gives me a beer to replace the one he took from me. Double fisting it. Awesome.

I'm double fisting it and the ark is setting up. The lead singer is getting a full can of hairspray put on. Olaf. Sweden. Prettyboys. Queen. Bowie. T-Rex. But the kind that have to sit down to take a piss. The audience is shitting themselves over them. I'm finding myself an arm-crossed skeptic for once. Kinda pretty okay, but not much more than that for me. Olaf's wearing red fingerless gloves, what appears to be a white corset, and short white shorts, the rest are wearing matching white uniforms. The audience is apeshit. The singer wades through the crowd and sings from the bar railing. I go and have a cigarette, come back and take more photos. Meh. Olaf takes off his shirt and is standing in his shorts and red suspenders. Ghey. Meh. The audience is writhing with pleasure. They come off stage. Shake hands. Photos with the band. I get a photo with Beth from The Gossip. Shiv gets a photo with Beth. Me and Olaf. Shiv and Olaf. Shiv and Olaf again (boy, they're really hitting it off). Beth and The Giraffes. Me and Hannah from The Gossip. I go back in, grab Jim Eno, take him to the bar for a shot, but the bar just closed. Shit. Get shiv.

****a few minutes are lost here. what did we do? eat pizza? i don't recall at all****

Head to The Jackalope. I am filthy drunk. The front is not yet open, so shiv and I head around back. More shots (I think). More beer (I think). Who am I? Where am I? Why? How? Punk showcase, Dot Dash. Filth. Smoking against the ban. OPEN DEATH.

The Busy Signals. Up front. Flailing. I'm knocked down into one of the mic stands. Protect the camera. Somehow, psychically, protect the camera. Loud. Move. Female singer. Good photos taken drunk. . . drunk photos taken well? This may be the best possible way to finish the debauchery - nearly blackout drunk watching young punk bands fuck shit up.

Smoke break. Drink break. Air break. Where the fuck did I leave my umbrella. Drunk dial women. Raspy voice, tell them where I am. No, you probably shouldn't come out, the show's pretty damn loud, and I'm filthier than filthy.

LiveFastDie. Wholesome looking young lads doing unwholesome things to their instruments. Bassist in biker cap and mustache. Even punk guitarists can look like hippies these days. Drunk. Where's my beer? On the amplifier. Where the fuck did I put my umbrella? Buy the man a drink.

Smoke break. Beer break. Shot break. Where the fuck did I put my umbrella? Cigarette. Sit down. Stand up. Talk to a rollergirl. Inside. Outside. Inside.

Angry Angles. Don't remember them at all, but their myspace songs are enjoyable and I have photographic evidence that I was there.

Smoke break. Beer break. I'm broken. Smoke another. Photo of shiv. Why the fuck do I have to keep going outside when I want a cigarette? That's bullshit. Who plays next?

DC Snipers. Same biker bassist is in this band, too. I like this. I fall into the mic stand. Someone picks me up. Flailing. Fuck going outside, I'm smoking right here. Let me take yr picture, fuckface. Fucking bring it. Fucking bring it. If my hands weren't swollen, I'd be clapping harder. You bitches don't fucking suck. This week has taught me what the far side of punk looks like. I can spit in the face of any mere misfits t-shirt wearing shit. this is beyond. i am beyond. i have sunk so far that i'm higher than i was when i began. i'm still dancing, bitch. i like you fuckers, i can dance to this shit. okay. okay. okay. where the fuck is my umbrella?

Am I already done with this pack of cigarettes? How many have I had today? Two packs? Cigarette machine. Smoke break. Drink break. Sit on the swinging chair. Buzz. Beam at those who walk by. Look like you belong there, and no one will question. I am one with the monger. I am really loving this cigarette, I haven't eaten enough today, have I? Buy shot at the bar. Crash it back. Cigarette. Back inside. That's my place right there up front, fuckers. yeah, you know it, don't you? I belong there.


Tokyo Electron. Up front. Arizona punk. Photographic evidence. hazy memory. Fuck this is good. I can feel a fucking saguaro stabbing my brain to this shit. dance. Flail. Desert punk. I'm smoking again. I'm falling again. Where the fuck is my fucking umbrella? I run out of room on my memory card. I run out of batteries in my camera. They are spent. I am spent. My umbrella was at the front of the stage, now it is covered in filth. Smoke break. No drink break. Back inside. tania's here. shiv's here.

Back outside. smoke break. I walk out of the bar, into the alley. I walk a little bit further. I walk abit further. I am walking. I am weaving. Up towards the capital building to 12th. east across I-35. Sway close to, but never step into the street or the gutter. Away from the music. away from SXSW. Away from my friends. Away from the drink. Light a cigarette. I have my umbrella. Across I-35, into some sketchy neighborhoods. It starts to rain. I have my umbrella. Hey man, you have any money? Fuck, brother, if I had money do you think I'd be walking? Take a cigarette. take a cigarette. You too, take a motherfucking cigarette. be safe. Be safe. Be safe. It's raining. I am smoking. This is my street. It is 3AM, and you are listening to Austin Texas. It is done. 3.5 miles from the bar where I left my friends for no good reason other than it is done.

I wake up without a hangover.

Still yr monger, over and out,

Colin

speechless.

Better you than me.

Jesus. I suddenly want a cigarette. I can't imagine why.

i havent gotten 8 numbers in my entire life.

overall, very good work. i think.

holy hell colin, you make me proud.

That stat is creeping me out. Maybe Satan does exist after all. Wouldn't that be a pisser?

You'll have to warn me if you're ever coming up here, like 2 months ahead of time, so I can start up my whiskey-and-bacon regimen and sleep for 3 days at a time.

yeah, how is that even possible? all the water i guess. but shit. maybe he's just been drunk for 5 straight days. no chance for a hangover. yet.

if not, i'm jealous.

i get hungover from one beer these days...at least a splitting headache.

Damn my job and having to work Sunday morning.
Did you even use the press pass?

Yeah, for the punk showcase. I was too blown to wander any further than that.

Dig it. You mastered the Swiateck Signature Smile, then?
Good man.

PM me your address. I gots some stuff to send your way.

Shiv kept looking for Colin at Jackalope's wondering where the hell he had disappeared to. After about 20 minutes, Jon received a text informing him that Colin is walking home piss drunk. High-larry-us!

You remember too much to have truly mongered. Or, you really are my monger.

agreed. that's my thing with these so-called monger threads. if you remember ANYTHING, than you truly haven't partied like you should have.

or maybe my friends and i are just waaaaay fucking overboard.

Its better when its all REAL fuzzy, but you can piece it together by what you are or aren't wearing, who you have or havn't fuh'd, and the random looks of friends and strangers...which I think is what happened here.

I actually like that buzz when you are too fucked up to talk/move/think, but you still have total recall.

well ok, on that i can relate. when your friends say "dude, you did", and your reply is "what?"....and they then just give you a blank stare.

now that's a night out.

or "do you remember...:"

"Dude, I didn't do that!!"

I think that's partially what the camera was for. Guy took 1,000 pics just on Thursday alone, so many of these entries likely were recounted with the help of visual aids.

Everything was truly disgusting, and by Sat morning I was concerned for our friend's ongoing life functions.

wow! i feel like a girl after reading this.

Balls on! It's been about 14 years since I've seen a guitar string broken live (Jazz Butcher at Maxwells).

Have you found your liver yet Col? I hope you were smart enough to put your name on it in permanent marker.

"If found, please hand to a beautiful virgin and have her return it to Colin."

I never saw any sheets, but I doubt there are any left in the entirety of Travis County, TX. Least, not since Tuesday.

Or when you wake up and you feel like you got hit by a truck. And you ask one of your buddies what happened "Oh MAN, you, like totally fell down 43 flights of stairs, it was AWESOME". And all you've got is the levis currently holding your legs intact.

Levis have saved me from many a skin graft.