Saturday, February 19, 2005

Weekend is Vicious.

I am enlisting Len and Jesse to aid me in realizing my newest band dream. A late 70's style power-pop band (a la big star, soft boys etc.). The band is to be called "Weekend" and all the songs will be sugary 3 chord odes to life's most pressing concerns: The Weekend (I always capitalize the 'W'), girls, dad being a dick and not lending out his car- Things of that nature. We had our first "practice" last night which mostly consisted of dancing around my room to the song that inspired the idea, "Weekend" by a band succinctly named "The Boys." This cheered me considerably. a half hour earlier I had been lying on the sofa groaning listlessly, sighing and contemplating death. Thankfully (?), thinking about Weekend bumped me into a manic phase. I'm not sure which Abby is the more awful one to be around, the morose, suicidal version or the hysterically chatty, nervous and bouncy iteration.

I'd been saying for a few days that after being down with the flu for a week or two, when I did manage to reenter the world it would be vicious and certainly involve mayhem, possibly arrest and/or blood. I set out last night with the explicit mission of getting very fucked up. There are few projects I ever manage to see through to completion but this turned out to be one of them. I was even fortunate enough to have a partner in the endeavor-Emilio, also despondent and agitated, keen on drinking and brawling.

We began with a pint of whiskey which we downed quickly during the marriage show at 30-30. So excited about Weekend, I'd forgotten to eat dinner before going out and by the time we got to rainbo, I was having trouble speaking. But heros don't give up. They stoke the flames and drink beer. Outside the bar I was admiring Rand's bike. It was all covered in tape but I recognized the make and model immediately.
"This is a Trek!" I cried. "7100 or 7200?"
"71"
My heart swelled. This was a version of my precious bike which had been stolen out of our basement one month ago.
"Can I ride it Rand?" I pleaded almost in a drunken whisper.
"Of course!"

I took off weaving down Damen, overcome with joy and nostalgia. I raced back and forth, I waved to my buddies, I pedaled in circles in the street. The circles got smaller and tighter until, wasted as I was, I lost control and wiped out in the middle of the road, right infront of a very attractive group of onlookers. "I'm ok !" I yelled, getting up quickly- dazed and embarrased. The heels of my palms were gravely and bloody, so was a patch on my chin, my right wrist incredibly sore. I'd been looking for a fight and i'd found one with the asphalt. We went to Laso's tacos and then to Lorain and Joey's where joey, I'm conviced, tried to kill us with a vile kind of tequilla and homemade moonshine. Emilio offered to conduct some shamanistic healing on my hands but this consisted largely of breathing directly on them. I cut the procedure short shrilly chastising him for "just blowing germs all over my wounds!"

We made it home around 4 and I made a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing the whiskey off the spice shelf. Len, leaning against the sink with a cup of water just looked at me and silently shook his head. "Bad idea?" I asked, by that point incapable of determining so simple a matter on my own. Heeding len's advice, we migrated to jesse's room in search of what remained of the pot I'd given him. Fortunately it was nowhere to be found. I suspect that as well would have been a bad idea. In a word, we were destroyed.

Emilio and I stayed up until the sun was tugging at the sky- reading Wallace Stevens poems, wallowing in general despair and rhapsodizing about floating in the dead sea, from the Jordanian side, not the Israeli. I slept in later today then I can remember doing in a long time. I still feel awful but it was a very good night. I needed to do the Weekend viciously.

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