you'll be happier with lower standards.
The last month or so really was a do one*. Let's play catch up.
After the near liver failure whimsically referred to as my 'birthday week' (which consisted of four shows, two blackouts, and one lovely dinner with friends), I decided to jump on that jaunty little wagon.
Not a sip, slop, or surp of ardent spirits to coat my throat and soothe my soul. And you know what? Easy. My year as a boozer, blackguard, carouser, drunkard, dipsomaniac, pie-eyed wanderer was filled with stories, bad decisions, depression, festivities, good friends, and that wistful halo of romanticism that is a drunk. The day after my birthday the battle cry was "he's human after all!".
How did I spend the waking hours between sleep, work, and an acceptable time to begin imbibing? Don't know. Nights spent wandering the northwest Denver streets, drinking from sprinklers and walking so flat-footed my ankles swole. Mornings spent bleeding from falling off my bike wasted, laying in the middle of 15th street wishing only for my mother.
I rediscovered Tom Waits and the Pogues, as any good drunkard should.
I devoured books and spit the spines out whole, unfortunately forgetting most of what I had read.
I developed an astonishing arsenal of toasts (thanks in part to Plummer and Gabe).
I wrote shitty songs and learned to record them. I fell asleep composing concertos and awoke to find a splintered mish-mash of stolen ideas.
Not to say that I am done with alcohol; quite the opposite. It's just that a little break was much-needed/long overdue. Quite the eye-opener. So anyway, I realize it seems a bit dumb to coax congratulations for something as minute as a week off the sauce, but those that know me well know it was not an easy feat by any means.
I'm still hearing stories about my birthday. Shirtless on the bar? Shots of jager? Failed attempts to play guitar? A cat named Stevie Wonder? We may never know what happened, because all my wingmen were just as wasted as I was.
April has been the busiest month at Pete's I've ever seen, and it just seems to get busier. I keep wondering when it will peak. Once the Real World lands a few blocks away, I'm afraid all hell will break loose.
Naomi is my boss. Although it kinda feels like the Marquis is our own little playground, save for the expensive drinks and corporate-type boss men.
It snowed again, one last snow. It was beautiful. I love living in the Highlands because it is so quiet at night. And when it snows the only sound you can hear is your own blood pumping. There is nothing more lonely than the quiet of a 3am snow...it is only akin to the lonely of a door slam or an empty apartment. Close the book on winter...I'm ready for spring.
Fishing, kickball, indoor soccer (stop laughing- the season starts tuesday), barbeques, Miami, patios, Bloody Buddy Sunday Funday, street wiffle ball, camping, bicycle, Sasquatch, Pitchfork Fest, Lollapaloser, new band?, Anna Karenina, banjo, Mayt Mayhem, New York Shitty. This is the menu for the spring/summer.
I write these words with a pen, over and over again to make sure everything is just right. This is who I am. This is who I always was. This is who I continue to be.
-mattfuckingclark.
*Do one (due-won): a versatile phrase used to describe affirmatives, the having of fun, the drinking of libations, drunkness, sex, the attractiveness of a member of the opposite sex, etc. The phrase was coined in Las Vegas, Nevada, October 2005 by Matt Hergenreter, and overused by the author. Do one is also quickly becoming a worldwide phenomenon, appearing anywhere from Blackout Pact stage shows to Dairy Queen commercials.
Examples:
"Did you get drunk last night Gabe?"
"Oh man, it was a do one."
"Matt, I would love to introduce you to this girl I know."
"Is she a do one?"
"Justin, did you do one with that girl last night?"
"Want to do a shot?"
"Do one!"
Also can be used in such instances as getting too drunk (do two) or having a quiet night (do a little one or do half of one).
