My right elbow has a radial fracture.
Q.) How’d that happen, Steve? Were you…
A.) Pushed down in a mosh pit at a NOFX show; causing you to instinctively extend your hands to break your fall, thus resulting in a very painful injury forcing you to leave the show only 3 songs in?
C.) No seriously, Masturbating?
D.) Getting your ass kicked for always sneaking masturbation into your writing, no matter what the topic is?
The correct answer, like clockwork, is…
None of the Above.
I love shitty punk. I’ve always loved it, and always will. Despite the fact that, like every culture, there is a certain look that belongs to that group that I’ve never fit in with. It’s liking the movement, without ever following its standards and practices, like someone enjoying Insane Clown Posse’s music, but never banging their cousin.
I’ve never adjusted my look to conform with the members of it. This proves to be dangerous at shows. You become a target. You just don’t belong, whether it be a band as popular as Green Day or as underground as Bomb the Music Industry!
It’s hard to shout out ‘Fuck America, and down with capitalism’ when you are sporting $80 jeans, and a shirt that looks like you just left an MMA match. You are infiltrating their camp….now validate your parking and leave.
At the age of 28 I’m still out of place with it, despite my love for that style of music. This doesn’t detour me from indulging, however, I should learn my lesson with going to shows at this juncture in my timeline.
“I’m the Sandusky of liking punk rock; in that I know I’m too old for it and should stop, but can’t resist the overwhelming urge to want to hear the screams of it while I’m in the shower…”
(I’ve actually got quite a few of these, here are some more.)
When it comes to me liking punk, I’m like-
- Donald Trump to Obama’s birth certificate. People tell me to get over it, and that it’s a lost cause, yet I can’t.
or can’t resist it like-
- A Kardashian trapped in an elevator with twenty NAACP members.
and my personal favorite, as dangerous as-
- Heath Ledger winning a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Ambien factory.
I genuinely, unapologetically, enjoy it.
This brings me to the night of Tuesday, January 3rd.
I went up to Mont Bleu to see NOFX, a band I have enjoyed since being in middle school The fact that such an underground band was playing at a prestigious resort seemed alarming, but I ignored it. I was out to have fun.
The nostalgia immediately overwhelmed me, I couldn’t breath and was paralyzed from the feeling.
It was amazing. The spiked hair, piercings, patches, chucks, Doc Martins, PBR tall cans in everyone’s hands, falling down in the pit only to immediately be pulled up by the comradery of the group. My knees gave like the nurse kissing her sailor in Times Square…welcome home, soldier.
What happened to me? What happened to my views? When did I grow up into such a fucking robot? I was surrounded by girls with chopped, pink hair and dark eye-liner, no forearm was without a tattoo, and all I could think was….When did I sell out by going to college and making offspring?
Then it happened…
- Punkers started checking email on their iPhones.
- In between sets everyone was updating FB and Twitter statuses.
- A woman with a Mohawk and ‘fuck your America’ shirt was plugging one ear so she could hear what the babysitter for her kid was telling her on her phone.
- Two punks behind me were describing to each other their fear of the pit because, ‘Doctor says I gotta stay off this knee, bro.”
- A band screamed ‘who here has work in the morning?’ and received a 90% groan reaction because we all had to make a living in a few hours.
All of us were exhausted, all of us, except for one.
He was a beast. A fucking true punker. Long unwashed hair, his skin hung like a handbag made from the faces of Mickey Rourke & Iggy Pop, unwashed clothes covered in patches, earlobes gauged, and his enthusiasm….unmatched.
He was the Godfather. A legend. Life was a race that never could keep up with him.
Cocaine really is a helluva drug.
He was drunk off his ass, an empty whiskey bottle in his back pocket, a bag of weed that he gladly showed every band who asked, ‘who here in the audience is high??!!” He held that bag of weed up in his hand as if it was the sword of Excalibur. His trophy, and badge of honor.
He never gave up on the lifestyle….and it was the saddest thing I have ever seen.
That’s when reality foreclosed on my nostalgia house. You sunk my Battleship, sir.
Punk rock was not dead, but now in bed by 11. We had kids to do homework with, had to clean out the lint filter of the dryer, and catch up on Top Chef in our DVR. Punk Rock is driving 15 in a school zone.
I am Murtaugh to punk rock’s Riggs, and I’m too old for this pit…
What the hell was I doing here? How did I end up in this place? But more importantly...
Did I just break my fucking arm?
To be continued...