i am fucking tired.

awoke this morning to find my ears were still ringing from last night. it's funny, the hearing damage that results from going to shows sans earplugs sounds oddly like bagpipes. maybe this is just my scottish heritage rearing its head, and my bruised eardrums seek out the sound of some lonely musician playing their bagpipes to soothe themselves. but probably it has more to do with little high-pitched vibrations stuck in my ears.

part i

awoke worse off than i was today, due to a not inconsiderable hangover. called colleen, because she has no alarm clock. went back to sleep for a few minutes, then cleansed myself. dressed up in ripped, stained punk girl clothes. i am a poser. done getting ready and it's 11 and no colleen. call her again and she's still asleep. i bring my garbage cans inside and read email while i wait for her to get over to my place. she comes, and i make a decision to leave my car downtown. (where i left it night previous due to my drunkness and some sober person insisting i couldn't drive. bah.) stupid, stupid, stupid. we head north around noon, stopping in south seattle to look at scooters and feel like ignorant morons.

part ii

i wake up and we're in the valley. within five minutes, the brooding, overcast sky has given way to sunshine. we stop at the community college where i used to work, but the office i need access to is deserted. contemplate ringing the doorbell of the radio station, but decide it wasn't that important. i point out personally significant landmarks and my old ghetto house, 910b. we go to the local goodwill and find numerous cheap records and a nintendo power pad. i restrain myself from buying bags'o'toys. we drive past the skate shop across the street from my chevron, and it's going out of business. we go in, seeking cheap skateboards, and scott, the owner is half-heartedly helping some frat boy try on snowboard boots.
the slant, which is the shop, used to be in this tiny building across from cenex (if you don't know, you ain't a redneck). scott and his wife lived in back with their daughter and you went in and it was like family. they knew me, knew my little sister, sponsored those of my friends who were talented. then one summer, the shop filled up with the football players i went to school with, and there was never enough room. scott didn't even have time to say hi when we came in. eventually, they moved. and not two years later, they're out of business.
we move on to my dad's house, which entails a drive down highway 11/chuckanut drive. we find him out in the woods digging a drainage ditch, which he is more than happy to show off. he gives us half an hour's worth of information about the stump he's removing and the forest fire he found evidence of in the color of the soil beneath it. he feeds us pizza and we converse about evolution and fleas. he sends me off with money for food and books, which i must not spend on a tattoo, or i'll feel even worse about taking it.
we make it to larrabee state park well before dusk, and it's totally perfect. the sound looks like chocolate - smooth but still seemingly thick, or rich. and all the clouds are golden as the sun begins to set and the breeze is perfect and the temperature's perfect and we climb over the rocks like i used to when i was small. high school kids parade past into the cove that's not part of the park to make out of smoke weed. we head north again at 8.

part iii

the show is at the show off gallery in bellingham, which is actually three peoples' house. we get out of the car and our hearts sink because, holy shit, we're back in oly. we know half the kids there, and the ones we don't would have no trouble fitting in with all the little hipsters. we find skrilla and his woman, laura, and dig our heels in. see five bands:
dive tasters: blah. we catch the end of the set. see mumbled lyrics and guitar-on-its-deathbed. spend most of our time outside smoking because though no one's dancing it's miserably warm and humid inside.
the gossip: made my night. i've already said it today, but beth ditto is a goddess. everyone's on their feet, shaking their asses. she walks through the crowd and gets people to sing along. she sings girls in black, which gives colleen and i the giggles. my new favorite hipster band.
teen cthulu: can't pronounce it, can't spell it, but i fucking well dig it. fight with myself over the wisdom of joining the pit. common sense wins out over nostalgia, and i help skrilla guard his girlfriend, who is freaking the hell out. we like to watch punk boys abuse their instruments.
thrones: one guy with a drum machine and a guitar, and a voice that's either soft and nasal or eerily like james hetfield. this must be that new-fangled ex-pery-mental stuff. the cherry on top is the sleepy eyed boy with the bad mod haircut who stands on the side of the stage smiling stupidly and swinging his arms.
murder city devils: suddenly, the show off is packed with people. and a distressing number of chicks with fake tans in tie-back shirts and leather pants. ew. a girl named mary, from portland, tells us how she's been following the band all over the country but hasn't yet seen them light their drums on fire. skrilla tells me that cody, the drummer, is the same cody who was in a local band named bland all so many years ago. people rock out, the pit goes nuts, it gets too hot to breathe. we see mary step outside and not a minute later they light the drums on fire. poor girl.

this is me exhausted and happy.