I’m 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.
I 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.
I 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.
I’m 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 shirt.
The word “emblazoned” comes to mind.
Young and beautiful, with new stubble.
I 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.
aaaaaaaand 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.
The 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.
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