The night started with a low key walk to the Lazy Lizard. A place where everyone was young. Political banter, the near fail of a test, and stress took refuge in the wake of our Pride’s close loss to a division rival. A preternatural routine had arisen under the Rising of the Moon.
Morose, a grit in our teeth and only one objective, pure exhaustive exorcism of the boiling blood.
Down the hatch, without a cheer. No cheer. Just red-blooded American boys. A weary and dangerous operation of excess. Down the hatch once more.
A sonic buzz in the ears. The wooden dance floor sticky with spilt lager and who knows what else. Girls dance gracefully in their dorm rooms. My brother and I do not dance gracefully. Clarity turns into blurry madness. The kind when your body tells your brain to take a hike. It was unsynchronized flailing. It was stomping and shadow-boxing. It was all we knew. The band was loud and if they put out music at all there was no recognition of it. Just fuel. Pure high octane piss and vinegar.
In a moment of clarity between songs, we looked around, encircled by bouncers. Just us and the ring. Being watched like cops at the 68’ Democratic convention. Swat masks and plexiglass shields.
We high-fived, and the band played on.
Bands about Bands
They talk about social these days. How about this!