Sunday, January 3, 2010

The year in beer.

We had a fair few names for 2009, most of which included phrases like "bad decisions". It seems like only yesterday that I was chugging Andre out of the bottle at Zach and Guido's, and now here I am, sprawled out on my mother's couch, the dog snoring beside me, full of truly foul roadtrip food and reeking of punk rock. Oh the tales I could tell you. And since I'm so languidly positioned and somehow not at all sleepy, I think I will.

To give you some notion of context, I'll start with a brief summary of the highs and lows of the year. In fact, how about a year in photos? For those of you who missed it, this is how it was in 2009.

2009 began as many a New Year has - with a kiss, and some metal hands. I wore the most ridiculous outfit of my life, and drank champagne and whiskey in excess long into the night; it seemed like a good way to start the year.

Shortly thereafter, Paul and Emily had their show. Ms Ranshaw was there, and her reminder of simpler times became even sharper shortly thereafter. You may have heard some refer to 2009 as the year of the scandal. This may or may not be true. At least no one got knifed.

We threw an awesome party. We threw several of these, but this was by far the fanciest. Also, Rob Fucking Motes was at this one. wtfx.

I turned 20 in 2009. There was whiskey.

I got another tattoo. On my ribs.

We had another art show, this time with Dirty Wheels, Yeti Hands and Just Before the War with the Eskimos. But all anyone really remembers about it was Randy's shirt.

Kevin and I released a zine, one of the accomplishments I'm most proud of this year. It also spawned a collaborative relationship that exploded into one of my most valued friendships.

Andrea visited for a weekend, and we threw her a party. It would seven months before I would see my best friend again.

Shit like this happened all year.

The semester ended with a disappointing lack of prints. but high hopes for fall. It became increasingly difficult to focus on school as the year went on, and it seems unremarkable in hindsight.

Summer passed in a debaucherous and sweaty haze, in which many terrible things happened, though some were not terrible at all. For the second time in six or eight months, I proceeded to drive my life off a cliff, wearing a shit-eating grin, grasping a bottle of wine as I went down. The only remedy was to run away. And away I went.

My trip to Seattle was one of the most important things I've ever done for myself, and probably my work as well. This city has always been important to me, before I ever saw it. Little did I know, it would become even more relevant in the months to come. My only regrets are not drinking nearly enough and not bringing my bicycle.

After getting back, I volunteered at the Tamarind Institute. There are no words. I mean, there are, but they're in the archives of this very blog. So no need to repeat myself.

There was a Grand Canyon show at a house on my street. The night started innocently enough, and then the whiskey showed up. I got knocked down in the pit, lost my necklace, and stumbled home covered in glitter and dirt and beer. By far the best show I went to all summer.

Punk Rock Prom. enough said.

So there was a bunch of other shit that went down, but the really important stuff (for me) didn't start until Halloween. There was a bike race. The bike race that started it all... I don't have good photos of the race, but I do have ...

...this motherfucker. who barged into our lives shouting obscenities, smoking all my cigarettes and letting me tattoo the word "fuck" on him after having known me for 45 minutes. needless to say, we get along famously.
after Halloween, possibly because of some time warp, parallel universe wormhole singularity spirit world dimensional rift bullshit, my entire life changed. for the incomparable better.

we started a cult.

We did (do) dangerous, stupid shit. We drink a lot of beer.

We play bike polo, among the other dangerous and/or stupid shit we've been doing. (Polo isn't stupid, but it is certainly dangerous)

And we go on poorly-planned, ill-fated road trips. But that's another story, for another blog post, because this one here is disturbingly long and self absorbed as it is.

One last thing about 2009 :

I fucking love you,
you dirty punks.

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