So, wow. Sober dawn of Monday, eh? I spent this weekend in New York dicking around while some friends of mine got all married. When I got home last night I was barely able to stay awake until 930. I was looking forward to last night’s sleep almost all weekend. I felt that there was a tiny, off chance that I’d be able to just sleep for twelve incredible dead souled hours and then feel great today. Unfortunately this baby that sleeps in my room was up squirming and pissing her pants and moaning and yelling and shit the entire night. I don’t think there was a point where she stopped making sounds for more than like an hour and a half stretch from ten pm to 8 this morning. The results are not good.
I live near the train, and there’s a sadness that rolls out with that first 445 Monday morning train heading into the city. If I’m awake to hear that train, or if it wakes me up, I’m stuck there just thinking about how another week is brutally rolling in and there’s gonna be more work, more avoidance of work, more responsibility, more missed opportunities, more squandered hours and more soul crushing standing in line waiting for the chance to die. It’s not the most fun little bit of stocktaking that you can do right there at the beginning tip of your week, and boy howdy did it hit me in spades today.
I guess the real issue here is that I just spent the last four days staying up drinking whiskey until three in the morning when I’m usually soundly asleep. The lack of sleep and poison usually combines to stir up a little good old fashioned morning doom, but this batch is particularly vile today. And that’s totally fucked up. Here’s why: I just had one hell of a weekend where I hung out with some of my best friends, a guy who uses projections to make buildings disappear and a secret service dude that was, at one point, in charge of making sure the prince of Qatar got his dick implant safely and properly serviced. You can’t make that shit up folks.
What else? Two of my best friends are getting hitched this week. I’m playing two shows with some of my favorite bands EVER and I’ve got a good family and I’m pretty stoked on generally everything that’s going on. But shit, tell that to my spinning head and my two demanding kids and the brutal death march that’s gonna be today. I mean shit, folks. Is it too much to ask to just get some sort of hyperbaric Jacuzzi/soul transfusion machine to lounge in for a couple of days while beautiful naked women check on my various physical needs? Is that really so much to ask?
God. I could really use an apple.