It's Homegrown week here in Duluth, Minn., and I've been out every single night looking for weird shit. Like my friend going Gallagher with Mod Podge, arts & crafting on stage while a band played. Like a guy rubbing a pre-packaged deer heart all over his face, his lab coat bloodied, while he played industrial electro-something. Friday night I finally got the chance to cut loose.
Chuck says the bedroom smells like booze fumes.
And it's back to sleep.
I wake again, foggy. I have no idea what to do with myself. He's reading. I go downstairs to god-knows-what. Bemoan the lack of new content on the internet, mostly. Catch up on a week's worth of TiVo. Find a Lifetime Original Movie based on a true story. First I put on a pair of shoes that are a total contrast to the mesh pants I'm wearing and take Chuck's car to McDonald's for the No. 2 with a Powerade. A deliciously disgusting bit of hate eating always makes me feel better.
I fritter away the day with TV shows with crime narratives. Read about three pages of a book. I think: "You know, Christa, you don't have to go out tonight. Stay home! Watch a movie. Read a book."
Nah. I've got to see this thing through. And Chuck drops me off at RT Quinlan's. I hang outside with friends and tell the story about the time a tampon was lost in my body. I make some new friends, which was on my unofficial to-do list for the week.
Inside to catch Sexhawk's show. At one point they throw a pinata from the stage. No one can get it open. Eventually someone beats the shit out of it with a 32 ounce beer mug. It's filled with: Fake coins. A tiny bra. A kazoo. Pregnancy tests. Glow sticks. Turns out they have two songs about making sweet love to a girl in the backseat of a car in high school. These guys. Pure comedy.
There is a Whiskey Marie sighting. It's impossible for WM, JCrew and me to get a decent photo of this amazing trifecta because Whiskey Marie has gone handsy on my left breast. Finally we get it done, though.
The bar is becoming ridiculous with patrons. They run out of cans of PBR. I accidentally go to second base just trying to squeeze past some girl. "I'm sorry I just felt you up," I say to her. "This place is just packed." Shrug. She tells me it's okay.
JCrew, Seadawg and I try to go to Pizza Luce to see Retribution Gospel Choir. We get a block away and someone tells us they are at capacity, letting one person at a time whenever one person leaves. On Friday night, I hear, the same rules applied when the mayor tried to get in to see the Keep Aways. Strict city. We go back to RTQ.
The luster of the week is fading. So many people. So late at night. Pockets of weird smells. I stick around to the end, though, and for the second night in a row Chuck picks me up while he is on his lunch break from work and whisks me home while I babble on and on about glow sticks, new friends, shit shows.
I eat two bowls from an endless pot of Thai Chili that Chuck made earlier in the week. Friend a bunch of people I met and exchange text messages with Chuck and Radzo. This time I'm sober before I conk out, which should make for a better morning on Sunday.