Drunken Stories I

Posted: August 23, 2011 in Stories and Rants

So, I got genuinely shitfaced at a friend’s birthday party.  Blah blah, started talking Star Wars with said friend’s sister’s husband, then suddenly, BAM.  We were talking about punk.

No, I don’t mean that shit you find on logs.

No, I don’t mean that stupid definition you can find in some dictionary.

I mean the feeling.  That fearlessness.  You make music, ‘cuz it just feels right.  You pick up an instrument, even if you don’t know how to play, and you start singing, and then screaming, even though you never sang a solid note in your entire life.  But it’s alright, it doesn’t bother you: you’re getting it all off your chest and you got your community backing you up, no matter how good or bad you are.  You’ve made your own definition: you speak up and push boundaries and break the rules and have fun, no matter what other people think.

So, this dude starts fondly talking about the ‘good ol’ days’.  Something about getting into these grungy venues when he was only 11, playing various all-ages and not all-ages shows.  Something about feeling right at home, ‘cuz no one judged him, despite his age and fear; guys twice his age would offer him a beer or slap him on the back or ask him to come chill after the show.  “It was like a huge fuckin’ family.”  He says with a goofy smile.  He goes on, talking about breaking windows in his teens and shaving his head and joining new bands and yaddah-yaddah.

Then, the dude throws something out onto the table that catches me completely off-guard.  “It’s still out there, you know.  I saw what you wrote on your bag.  That Sham 69 quote.”

At first, I’m too drunk to get what he’s saying.  Does he mean that potato-sack-for-a-bag?  Did I even bring that with me?  Whatever.  I just wrote that shit down to look cool.  He’s old and senile at 40.

The party ends later, sometime in the evening.  I walk home, running into tree stumps along the way.

That following morning, I notice first hand that the stupid messenger bag is still slung around my shoulder.  I was using it as some sort of substitute-pillow.  Smooth, J.  I flip the bag over.  The quote that guy mentioned is on the front pocket.  I reread it over and over, waiting for something to click.

Then it happens.

If the kids are united then we’ll never be divided.


Maybe that dude isn’t so old and senile after all.


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