Word: mattes
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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When we got back to the Red Roof Inn that night, Matt collapsed on his bed, pulled his hands behind his neck, and went over the night out loud. In the cab ride, he had christened the various women he’d met with a series of pet names: Baby, for Erin, who wanted a baby, Spinny, for the bassist’s cousin, Jumpy, for the girl who jumped into him. At the Red Roof Inn, he repeated them again, like the names of stars in a newly discovered constellation...
Later, her husband Matt joined us, and our Matt pulled him a chair. The conversation turned to politics. The older Matt said he was a Democrat, and Andrew asked why Al Gore’s home state had gone to Bush. “Well, you know, there’s a ton of rednecks here in Tennessee,” he replied. “And after 9/11, they were spoilin’ for a fight.” Andrew nodded. “But now—what? two years later?—they?...
After some silence, everyone ordered another drink, and the band gained steam. Earlier in the night, Matt, Andrew, and I had watched an Elvis impersonator perform. “Everyone in this town has some connection to Elvis,” the older Matt said when we told him about it. “Like me. I went to high school with Lisa Marie Presley.” He let that sit and then turned to Matt and Andrew: “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Did you bang...
Andrew hesitantly returned it, looking wary. Erin rolled her eyes. Nearby, a girl who had spent the last 30 minutes eyeing the dance floor gathered her courage and bounded forward. On her way, she knocked into Matt Glazer, grabbing his hand in what I assume was meant to look like an apology. Soon, they were dancing...
...here,” he said, gesturing to the bar we’d just left. “It’s 80s night here. You want to hear real honky tonk shit. Go down the street, that way.” This was useful information. Matt had a song he wanted to hear...