glory hounds need not apply

   On the jam nights sometimes this Mike Ness want to be would come in. He modeled himself after someone he may have met once. He would get drunk and tell me his music would be legendary. He wasn’t bad for a solo guy with an electric guitar.I still don’t know why he came to the spot since he did not live in the area if I remember right. It was a bit of a drive to try to convince people of something they would never believe.

 

   There were not a lot of people that came like this. Most let the music do the talking knowing if it was good enough nothing else was needed. We had people with raw talent in regularly that would not openly talk about past accomplishments unless they knew you.

 

   I guess we all get the want for approval at times, but it can be annoying and pathetic. I am not saying he always was but had his moments. I am leaving his name out since like I said I am not a snitch, and honestly I do not remember it. Truth be told I don’t even really remember what he looks like besides trying to be Mike Ness.

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Heathens playground (the set up)

There’s a cocksucker somewhere to my left, a motherfucker somewhere to my right. I would say where I was, but it isn’t important. I could be anywhere, customs change but people don’t. It might seem like a nihilistic viewpoint, maybe it is. We are not wired to get along with everyone, especially surly bastards that use the middle finger as a wave to the people they care about, my kind of people. There is a lot of falseness or trying to keep up in most places, true freedom is said to be in places like this and the old west where being yourself and supporting you and your own was important, a badge of honor and pride which can be looked at as bad things by many especially in these times. The beer was alright, the whiskey was better. I drank for free nightly. Moderation is key but not always held sacred.I may have had too much to drink, or too little sleep either one is a safe bet. I was fighting puking or passing out it was a race to see which would happen first.This was before my period of puking regularly that kept my fake crackhead figure. Not the smartest of times for me to say the least, but you only get to be old and stupid by being young and stupid. It was a bar on the border of town meaning the street next to it was the border. A place where criminals, lowlifes, and other people worth knowing for the interest alone would be. We looked out for each other it was almost primal. The border jumpers that would do something and cross the street without the cops following them. A sanctuary for bad behavior on the good nights and a haven for evil deeds on others luckily I missed most of the bad times. The women were as beautiful and dangerous as broken glass. The men as rough, foul mouthed, ugly, and loyal as how people romanticize irish catholic priests of days past.The bar was dirty and pretty empty since it was a music venue that hasn’t always embraced that and has paid the price in the times it has closed their eyes to it. Maybe that is enough background, those from the area will know the place the name does not need to be said or spread. It is a den of iniquity, chaos, love, hate, music, beer, and so much more.
This might not be a story as much as a tone setter since many stories will take place,in this fuck up working class mecha.
I booked shows there for years along with someone else that will go unnamed. The reason false names and in some cases no names will be mentioned is first of all I am no snitch, secondly if this bullshit I spew ever grows any traction I don’t want people finding the place I am talking about. It is home to some, hallowed ground to others, just a venue to some as well, a dump, a dive, a place of ill repute, a danger, a place that should be condemned, and so many other things. A place where I have spent seven nights a week for years.
In a way these stories will also be the stories of the petafylers, wreckless fate, slain husains, the impaler, arrogant bastards, the idiots, cl1, labor force, and so many other bands that had their vocals go through a p.a system that was found in a pool. Luckily the pool was empty at the time.
The stories are passed down orally like in old tribes. Then again we were like a tribe of our own.Whatever I say will never be able to give you a real feel of the place or people. I have heard stories from that have never breathed the smoke filled air that was there after the smoking ban had taken effect. Here’s to the drunken nights the hearing loss, the break ups the place has caused, the mix of tolerance and lack thereof. A place where legends were born and others drank to excess, sold coke, talked shit, and frankly had nights they will never remember.

preface to bullshit

   I guess I have always been an outsider in mentality. I have never really thought of something as mine, I have been part of things sure but never really took ownership. To me ownership never really makes that much sense. The only thing anyone ever really has experiences and knowledge based on those experiences such as favorites, a way of looking at the world, a sense of good and evil which seems to be a personal thing. You have your own skills and aptitude, fears, likes but all of this can change over time. Claiming something that you have no control over makes no sense to me at all. If you have pride or take ownership of a place or culture I get that, you can change those things, you can move or change cultures like many do. I am not saying there are not things worth fighting for but those things are different to everyone as we have seen countless times through history. Many want or feel the need to fight which is a good thing and I am sure to them their reasoning seems pure, I don’t join anyone’s fight often unless it is in protection of someone close to me then again I trust in them to be able to fight their own battles.

   Maybe it is because of the area I grew up in, or being a loner to an extent, or countless other reasons that I have this current outlook. I am no god damned hippie, yuppie, dreamer, or idealist at least in my eyes anyway. I just have started caring more or even less, I guess it depends on how you look at it. I would love to see the bombs drop and end it all at the same time I want to see as much of it as I can while I can. The experiences and what we take away from them is all we are left with when it all ends or is close to ending.

   I have sat with bar stool profits, people that have seen themselves at royalty, others that don’t have two cents that they haven’t found on the ground somewhere. I would not trade any of that for something that could be held bought or sold.You do not need to own a book to get knowledge from it, you just have to have read it. I think that is what life is really, a book of sorts where each breath is another word on the page. I see no reason to have the pages filled with bought goods and trinkets but lacking substance adventure and pursuit of something even if you do not know what that something is all the time.A homeless man and a millionaire can both have compelling stories fraught with struggle fear and chances at death the main difference is where their stories might end. There is nothing wrong with comfort or security, and there is something to be said for discomfort and new situation, the lessons taught and the road less traveled.

   These stories are not told in the order they happened. It has been a while and I don’t remember the dates times, sometime even names, I usually remember places. Enough bullshit, time to start jogging down memory lane with a handle of rum for starters.

 

That’s right it’s uncle dipshit’s story time assholes.