lookee loo. my funshackle totally faded to white over the course of the week. like a mood ring or some other who-do voodoo.
8:30 p.m. -- jcrew, the rockstar and i dine at india palace. my goal is to either coat my stomach with matar paneer: something that i assume will soak up one dollar water glasses filled with coors, or at least look interesting at 3 a.m. when i pollack it all over the curb outside of pizza luce.
9:15 p.m. -- i'm seriously cramming forkloads of peas and cheese into my body like some sort of animal with a second stomach. the one i have has grown freakishly distended. next to me, jcrew is moaning through her similar mission.
10 p.m. -- we get to quinlan's, where i have a pavlovian desire to not enter, still a bit skittish from the way the place was raining breath and body odor during cars & trucks' show the previous night. when a droplet fell from a vent onto the rockstar on friday night, she convinced me that it was raining sweat and called the place a rainforest.
i quickly drink a beer with the intent of catching up to chuck, who has about a six-hour head-start on me having attended a house party in the afternoon where it was non unusual to find a homegrown hero mixing A1 steak sauce with his vodka, mayonaise and coke. god. homegrown is disgusting.
10:45 p.m. -- our trolley driver must have taken drivers' ed with the teenaged minivan driver who spirited us home on tuesday night. i'm sliding all over the wooden bench. the driver announces that it is okay to swear on the trolley, unlike on the DTA. we exit; amble up the hill.
photo by chuck.
11 p.m. -- jamie ness is playing a southern rock cover. his brother, the mayor, struts in and receives handshakes and pats on the back. this would make a fantastic lifetime original movie: [in a deep movie trailer voice] one brother is in a rock n roll band; the other is the gatekeeper to the city's rental ordinances. brother two tries to skirt into brother one's show unnoticed, but he's the mayor and people want to touch him. brother one gets louder. rocks harder. the skuttle around brother two reaches a fever pitch. brother one throw's his guitar down on the stage and screams: "i'm the rocker! this is my show! you have your show on cable access! just let me rock for my fans!"
unfortunately, this did not happen. [and i seem to have taken a lot of pleasure out of writing ness family fan fiction, which is ... weird?]
after shooting photos of jamie ness, chuck meanders back and says: um. i just sat on the floor of the kozy bar.
11:15 p.m. -- we parade southwest, back toward luce. jcrew limping along in a pair of impractical 3-inch heels; chuck photographing a woman in a knit cap who will, in return, belch in my ear as she skips past.
as we near the bar, the sweet sounds of 1991 is thicker than the smell of pizza dough.
mighty shock tower is revisiting REM's greatest hits, while their parents beam from the sidelines, clapping awkwardly and surprisingly unfettered by the liberal use of the "f" word being spit into the microphone.
i suggested to a former acquaintance that olive garden was his favorite restaurant and watched his pupils burn with hell-fire. i had to promptly extricate myself from this dangerous situation.
midnight -- it was during father hennepin's show that i noticed that duluth began to unfurl. it wasn't just the rain of granny panties parachuting onto the stage, it was a sort of drunken rind of fans that became deeper and deeper as the set went on. first it was just the photographer who eluded security, weaving his way across the stage, sticking his camera two inches from his subjects' faces. then i noticed the whole front row had turned pbr into a living, breathing thing. i turned around and saw a wall of sobriety become increasingly less so, like a drunken shadow force touching 20 people at a time until the duluth entity was officially schnockered.
12:30 a.m. -- i take a breather at a corner table. make friends. drink things. babble on and on until my own voice has taken on the piercing static of the most offensive alarm clock.
2 a.m. -- we stumble back into the main room for week's finale, crew jones, which even jcrew can get behind. it's sweaty. it's loud. it's animated. it is, per usual, pretty amazing.
3 a.m. -- jcrew says that since she has been to new york twice and has seen every episode of sex and the city at least once, she will hail us a cab. she stands in the street, arm in the air like the smartest kid in a third-grade math class. and sure enough, she snags one very efficiently. we go to perkins.
4 a.m. -- we cram our bodies with breakfast food and offend -- or perhaps educate? -- anyone withing a three-table radius. jcrew has left the contents of her meal in the toilet and splattered on her fancy red coat before she has even paid for it. me? when my meal bungees, i just reswallow it. this time when the cab arrives, we are uncertain if it is our's or another group's. the cab driver doesn't seem to care either way, and so we take it and are whisked away, back to our normal lives: meals made in kitchens out of ingredients found in nature; liquid in the form of water; conversations i remember. weeeee! oh normal life. i've missed you so.