You know, I really don't share all that much on this blog. It's too public. I don't get into discussions about my sex life, my spiritual beliefs, or the finer points of my wider politics. I don't go on about the details of my work woes or how I'd rather be at the bar, double fisting Pabst. That was me on Friday with two friends, waiting for the Lucky Scars to hit the stage. They're a local streetpunk/oi band, and they put together a fundraiser for cancer research - called it Breast Cancer Beatdown. There's a joke or two to be made about a cancer benefit in a smoke-clogged dive bar, and they all got made that night, I tell you what.
The cause was worth but entirely superfluous to my night. Some people go to church to center themselves and feel at peace with creation. Some walk in the woods or jump off of bridges or eat mushrooms or race cars. But for me it's live music. Just about anything will do in a pinch - bluegrass on the porch, marching bands making the streets ring and crash. But to be in the crowd at a punk show, in my home bar, brothers and sisters around, singing along. Moments like those are the reason some of us never give up the scene, though we let the drama and street level politics largely fall by the wayside.
My knees are shot from standing on concrete in boots and tripping over kids in the pit, so I don't mosh anymore. I try to pay my bills on time these days, so you don't find me blowing my paycheck at the bar every night anymore. My favorite little subgenres of punk rock aren't as popular as the current trends, so there's not a show every weekend anymore. But when the call goes out, I can't help but answer it. With a beer in each hand and a smile on my face.
