| Check
this out: As I write this, I’m approximately way the
fuck past my deadline on this piece. But that’s okay.
My editor loves me... I think. Anyway, the reason I’m
late, quite frankly, is that I didn’t have jack shit
to write about. My deadline snuck up on me (as it usually
does) but I couldn’t crap out anything (like I usually
do). Ordinarily I’m able to squirt out some drivel about
monkeys, or drinking, or drinking monkeys... but that just
didn’t seem to get it done this month--then I went to
a concert. Not just any concert, a Social Distortion concert.
For
those of you who don’t know Social Distortion is one
of the most kick ass rockabilly punk bands that ever walked
the land, thanks to Mr. Mike Ness. I love him. And not just
fraternal man-love. If I had a vagina I would gladly accept
Mike Ness’s member. That incredibly disturbing thought
aside, I was overwhelmed at the immense material with which
to write an article about at his band’s show. I wrote
a bit on tattoos awhile back  that
didn’t even touch on the passion that most of the fans
I saw had for ink. Even further back I had a little rant about
fashion or the lack there of that some at the show might have
enjoyed. There were some who had not left the ‘50s.
The men with their rolled up sleeves and the women with their
hair pulled back in a little pink bow. Yet they also made
it their own with earlobe spacers the size of coasters on
some of the guys and fishnets and skirts shorter than my memory
on the gals. But that’s not what got my attention the
most.
What got my attention was the feeling of home. Of belonging.
That may seem weird coming from a place filled with multicolored
bi-hawks and wallet chains long enough to choke three people
(mine included), but it’s true. All these hard core
rowdy bastards made me feel... safe. I can’t explain
it. It was like a communal atmosphere; We were all united
under the same purpose. Superficial as it may have been, it
was a united purpose none the less, and it felt good. To be
sure, armies have been collected for lesser ideas and have
fought to the death. All we wanted to do was have a good time
and drink some beer. As I stood amidst the diverse throng
it struck me as how insanely dangerous this would appear to
my parents or anybody else outside my “circle.”
Truly for someone other than “my crowd” this would
be downright terrifying. But for my wife and friends it was
like a comfortable shoe. It just fit. Even in the pit, which
just so happened to be the most hellacious I’d ever
encountered, I never felt at risk. There were times when my
feet were pointed toward the sky and I could hear people screaming,
“Get him up! Get him up!”. People I didn’t
know from Adam were looking out for me. That’s a damn
sight more than I could say for any other average mother fucker
I meet on the street corner in an average day. When was the
last time you dropped something in the grocery store and had
somebody help you, let alone get your ass rolled onto the
cold hard concrete covered with beer and God know what and
had somebody pick you up. Not just one person but two or three.
If those people would have treated me like 99.9 % of the people
I see in an average day I would have been trampled to death.
Literally. And that’s when it hit me:
I’m
safer in a seething mosh pit at a punk rock concert than I
am at the grocery store. We need to reevaluate our status
as a community in the United States, because I love punk rock--but
it should be safer to get Mac ‘n’ Cheese.
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