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Stuck In a Rut with a Smut: |
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I’ve seen The Black Halos a little over a thousand beers ago back in Austin. From what I can tell, they’ve all grown up into well-adjusted, indecent men. Billy and I were found out front out of Alvins right after the Die Hunns scared me straight back into my pants. Not that they were off, beforehand, but Corey Parks looks as if she has survived a hit and run, and now has formed a true wretched hitch hiker band. Duane Peters and her were found snuggling as the Halos branded their name all across the walls of Alvins. This building is one of the last standing in the Cass Corridors, man! I remember Adam Halo somewhat complaining about the unresponsive audiences, in which I take it, he has played in front of, firsthand. I gathered he is not aware of the abandoned dump in which he stands in. Riots left this city to ruin long before FEMA ever offered unjust compensation. Where’s the MC5’s relief fund after an unnatural catastrophe of humans? So, there we were, Billy Hopeless and me, alive
without direction. He was coaching the underage skater punks to hurdle
over underprivileged crackheads. As he scrambled for his striped shirt to cover up his scars,
bruises, and abrasions, I found, my own self, scrambling to capture his
mumbling words of self and world preservation. What gives him the right to waltz up in a city predominately
packed with singed deadends, studded glam belts of local, musically
declined crust heads? Rock, and dirty muterfuckin’ Roll does, my friends!
Billy’s been on the upside of down, and the downside of up ever since his
father passed away this year. In between the pill poppin’ and whiskey shots,
he’s learned a lot more than us sitting in the same ol’ grind on a daily
binge. He’s got a lot to teach, and if he addressed an obedient audience,
they probably listen. Instead he’s forced, full throttle,
no-looking-back-until-the-end, in a crowd of unruly, and unmotivated
punker pillheads. Maybe if he preached in a city that hadn’t gone so
wrong, he’d be a Malcolm X whose voice would echo across the land with a
bottle beer bottle. Perhaps, this did happen in the next city down the
line, in a 4-story skate/cult compound. |
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-Smutstrutter |
Backyard barbecue
Sundays bring over the weirdest of my friends. Al, who looks like a
Neo-Nazi with a lazy eye was the first show on 9/11. After him Amber Hail,
my side kick in my southern rodeo garage band, showed up with a
guitar pick and frozen vegetable bag. Renata, Spinny, and Carl
showed up
after my two boyfriends did. It was all shits’ n barbecue sauce until the music began. Carl was
picked up by his raging girlfriend in an idling Hearst, and was never to
be seen again. Renata ate for two, while Spinny talked in slow motion about his punk years as a
Detroit crust punk veteran even back then. Bowser and Delia scrapped like
any pitbulls can. It was an average Sunday until later I had prior obligations to show up at Alvins.