not even sure who this life belongs to, this life of mine I lead on the
empty days alone. I’m at a bar at 6pm on a Sunday, sipping at a beer.
This is my first beer in a while, and I swear to God it is more
delicious than I remember.
am taking care to take each sip slow, experiencing each fizzy bubble as
it pops on my tongue, embracing the orgasmic bitterness as the cold
starts to slide down my throat leaving the aftertaste behind to linger
on my tongue.
love the parade of tattooed limbs wearing black and white band shirts. I
am amused because I looked up the band that is playing here tonight
(their final show, no less) and they are a hardcore and grunge band. The
reason for my amusement is that inside Burro Bar there is loud hip hop
music playing, and outside the bar there is a flock of kids that, and I
am definitely stereotyping here, don’t like rap/hip hop.
sitting facing the window and a kid that was in LaVilla when I was at
DA (and at DA when Madge was at DA) has just joined the throng of b/w
band shirts. He rode my bus when he was an itty bitty middle school
baby, and now he is here at a bar on a Sunday wearing a Charles Manson
The word “emblazoned” comes to mind.
Young and beautiful, with new stubble.
know none of these people, and I want to know all of them. I think that
my entire life exists on a plane of cognitive dissonance. It strikes me
that I am quite intoxicated.
now the music is switched to fit this evening’s targeted demographic.
Being here makes me crave that thigh tattoo - maybe a knitting related
tattoo.Being here makes me wonder how many people attending this show
are going to have B-movie monsters as tattoos.
I am entering Stage Two intoxication.
more I think about it the more I place moshpits at hardcore shows in
the same category as self-mutilation (and then a Phantogram song comes
on...whoa). Both are voluntary inductions into pain, that is inflicted
upon self in an attempt to take control of the pain themselves.