Homegrown is more than a week of local bands going apeshit on ukes at two dozen venues all night every night. This includes scarfing down fistfuls of dinner en route to the next whatever, throwing wary glances at the YMCA, and creating tap water in my own armpit in packed bars. It's the annual event that first made me love Duluth. I remember the moment in, whatsay aught-two, three or four. It was like 3 a.m. and I was standing on a table in the back of a packed Pizza Luce watching a band play long after the bar had stopped selling silos of PBR. From that year on, I was always conscious of this early May madness of jaywalking drunkoids and ringing ears and beer breath and how it, for lack of a better word, rules.
So I've been out Sunday night. Monday night. And Tuesday night I tried to not go out, but there was a primo parking spot when I dropped Chuck off at the Twins Bar, and all of a sudden, there I was, in public again. Albeit briefly. And I should add that I've done this without so much as a nip of Vanilla Extract, because as we all know, once I get into the Vanilla Extract, that gateway drug, it's lights out. If you thought I was socially awkward when I'm 15 beers deep and begging you to carry me around Michigan Street, you should see how socially awkward I am after 0 beers. It's a lot of G-rated jokes that make Disney look like perverts, and conversations that start with: "Wow. It has really been warm outside.
Tonight I finally cried "Uncle." Equal parts because I had "Root Canal the Sequel: Now with More Singed Tooth Fragments" early, early, early this morning; TiVo was bursting at the seams with shows starring teenagers with bouncy hair; My pajama pants were losing their muscle memory.
Tomorrow: Back up on that old horse. Friday: I drink a beer. Saturday, too.