Sunday, May 6, 2007

you're not the mayor ...

i wake at 10 a.m. wearing two wrist bands: the flourecent orange one indicates that i was at homegrown on saturday night; the yellow one means i'm old enough to drink enough pabst blue ribbon to make me publicly affectionate with lamp posts. or maybe its the other way around. who knows.

chuck surveys me with one eye shut.
"are you still drunk?" he asks.
i test my extremities. the weight of my brain. the stability of the contents in my stomach. my bladder and mental agility.
"YEAH!" i hollar.
"you should probably just go back to sleep," he says.
"YEAH!" i'm a very agreeable cheerleader.

i wake again, three and a half hours later.

i simmer down for a second to consider the possibility:
11:30 p.m. i drank one whisky coke.
12:15 p.m. i drank a keg-glass of beer.
12:45 p.m. i had about four sips of another beer.
1:15 p.m. i had a can of pabst.
1:45 p.m. i had another.
3:45 a.m. i had a few sips of a bottle of beer.

no. it is impossible that i am still drunk. that isn't even enough liquor to juice up a sleepy tuesday night. it is likely i wasn't ever drunk. even last night. that i'd merely harnessed a level of festivity and then paired it with adrenaline.

"you're not drunk," chuck says. "i think you're just high on life."
it may be crazy enough to be true.


i started my homegrown finale at carmody with the state champs, who i love, and not just because a hundred years ago the lead singer and i used to hide in the fiction section of the rochester galaria's barnes & noble, stocking and gossiping about which:

1. of our coworkers was in a suicidal standoff with police
2. of our married coworkers is shamelessly leading on another virginish manager
3. which member of simon & garfunkle finds it acceptible to wear a bathrobe into the store and make three-foot stacks of books and refuses to throw away his coffee cups.
4. of our coworkers was negotiating the sly seduction of an 18-year-old who had recently graduated from a montana reform school. [duh. me.]

from there, i travel to luce, where ray the wolf is reading lyrics off the front of his t'shirt. crew jones begins playing around 2 a.m. i'm about two rows deep and developing the scary form of fandom that can only result in me asking this band to be friends on myspace. the lead singer has a gigantic presense. he's like a caricature of himself or something and everytime he gestures i expect his digits to be the size of a foam finger. people are going apeshit. in the front row, a woman is dancing and her boyfriend is trying to pull down her pants. he has successfully unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and she is swatting at him.

all of this ends around 3 a.m.

today i face the rare occassion where i got excited for an event and it proved to be even more fun than i hoped. i friggin love homegrown.

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