The Filth and the Fury

I would have to characterize this weekend as being one long and tiresome bout of self-disappointment, with a small break for hilarity and several much-needed breaks for awesome. Hilarity was the Foot Fist Way, which was ridiculously accurate in its depiction of small town martial arts. Awesome was "Heartbeats" by the Knife, which somehow just hit number one in our household, meaning that at any given point, no matter how hungover, asleep, grouchy, or depressed you might be, you might be summoned inexorably to the living room for a dance party when someone starts blasting this jam. It sounds so good that I can't believe it's not a physical necessity like air or water. In fact, I have consumed more "Heartbeats" than I have water, which probably explains the uncalled for lingering of said hangover.
I'm tired of the word hangover, by the way - it's like, what does that even mean? Ha, okay, sorry, I'll stop cracking myself up by being awful. But seriously, I prefer a term like "self-inflicted stupidity ramifications" or something. It really brings home how dumb I was on Friday night. I get to blame a little tiny bit of it on the fact that of course there is never time to nap before stupid First Friday gallery walking, and I really needed a nap. When I'm really tired, it exactly mimics drunkenness (I mean, like, exactly - poor judgment and impulse control, near black-outs, the works), and I guess compounding that with wine, mead, and cider on my way out the door didn't help. Still, there was no call for the ensuing series of debacles. I really like to dig into regret, if you can't tell, and beat myself up until some magical absolution is granted. Said absolution has so far failed to materialize.
So have snow tires on my car, although I moved my old snow tires out of the garage and into the back seat as a first step towards remedying that. Some people are highly skeptical of their continued efficacy, so now on top of getting around to calling tire places and waiting on hunger-strike for them to take care of my bidness, I also have to live in fear of their telling me that I have to buy new ones. I know, I know, why don't I just buy new ones...maybe I will, but anything would be better than the tires I have on now - I don't understand: my first winter in Juneau, I never even got around to changing the tires. Oh, no, never mind, I just remembered that I lived in student housing and had a student job, no wonder it wasn't no thing. Anyway, a couple of days ago we got some snow, and I thought, "Okay, okay, gonna have to get up early and it'll be a whole rigmarole getting the car out of its spot and into the street, parked in the worst spot on our street as it is, but hey, if I can just slalom down to glacier highway I can make it, after all, Corin never changed his tires last year and he made it somehow." The reality of the situation was a little different, as it turned out. Alicia helped me until she had to go catch the bus, by which time Adrienne was coming out to move her car (conveniently parked behind me), and so it was Adrienne who witnessed the slow tragedy of me sliding down the hill, perpendicular to the road, blocking it utterly and praying fervently that nobody came along to demolish me or sit impatiently as I tried to fix the situation. Nobody did, and I managed to get the car pointed in the right direction...actually, I managed nothing, the car, the snow, and gravity sorted the whole thing out independently. But then I slid into the neighbor's snow bank, blocking their garage, and encouraging them to come out and help us try to get it unstuck. That done, I begged Adrienne to wait for me to park my car and found a spot on 12th St that I could almost park the car in. With the help of a couple of passing strangers, I got it parked sort of in the right place, a few feet off the curb. Then Adrienne let me borrow her car and my bacon was saved.
Sloth and sorrow all weekend also means that as of now, 1:00 on a Sunday afternoon, I didn't really do anything good with my free time. I'm going to see Theatre in the Rough's The Little Prince in an hour, and I keep telling myself that afterward there will still be time to do something, anything...but you know how it is when you don't believe yourself. I guess my headache lifted (mostly) with the soothing balm of coffee, but I've still got the mopes.