Sweet Christ.
There I was, wearing nothing but my briefs and a pair of boxing gloves, pounding the crap out of a scrawny loon from Ghana who was similarly clad, when his girlfriend (a 19-year-old from Maine who doesn't dare tell her family that she's dating a black man in London) tackled me from behind and sent me down. I twisted as I was falling and bruised the left side of my ass, to compliment the bruise I sustained on the right side when I slipped down some wet concrete stairs on the way to the basement sauna. Better than landing on my face. And when I say bruised, I mean the back of my right thigh is purple from my waist to my knee. Hey, if you're gonna do it, do it all the way.
Ambling through Brixton at 2am, limping barefoot, shirtless, and with a head full of whiskey and vodka, with those two and their dog, a mastiff puppy about the size of a horse, desperately seeking someone who would sell us booze on a credit card at that hour, yielded absolutely no results. Neither did inviting a couple of chicks to rub my tattoos and piercings ... and their boyfriends weren't impressed, either, I can tell you that. Good thing that monster of a dog was there.
I did make a wicked pasta sauce, though, according to those two cats, who are also chefs, out of pork and apple sausage, oranges, tomatoes, roasted garlic, red and green bell peppers, onions, and a few other things to make it happy. Yes, indeed, but I can't share all the ingredients, now, can I?
Well, thanks to the bruised and achy legs and the cut on my right heel from stepping on a shard of glass -- in his kitchen, much less, instead of, as you'd rightfully expect, on the streets of Brixton -- I skipped out on work the following morning. There was no way I was going to be able to get up and down those stairs while carrying plates of food. It's not too tragic, I wasn't really scheduled to work anyway, I just told Charlotte I would, since I didn't have school that day, the celebrations of the previous day's final exams being what led to my Brixton adventure in the first place.
I ended up with a couple other mystery cuts and I remember burning my hand on a pot handle, but I can't locate any evidence of that, so it must not have been too bad. Well, fuck all that, anyway.
"This is all ye know, and all ye need to know."
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Well, and here you have it. I have something to rant and rave about, but I can't do it here, so I'll just listen to some Tom Waits to make me feel a little better about things.
And what can you expect when you live a life without roots or direction or any real sense of a plan? It's harder to be a drifter than you'd think, take my word for it, gang, because there is some large amount of comfort to be had from knowing whose face you're going to see when you get home and even simply knowing where home is. Living life by your own rules that no one else quite understands makes the whole game a hell of a lot harder to play.
All I have is Tom Waits and Hunter Thompson to remind me that I'm not the only cracked paranoid weirdo wandering this earth with an exploding heart and a mind that races so fast that only a bottle of whiskey can slow it down enough to go to sleep at night.
I'm tired of being alone, but what other choice do I have?
The score is now 3-0 in 2004, and I'm not winning.
Maybe next year, eh?
And now I sound like a Cubs fan.
But thank God for friends ... I had one just save me from what would probably have turned out to be a savage beating at the hands of about 6 guys, one of whom spit at a girl, which I took serious offense to and started going after the guy. Luckily, both his friends and my friend had calmer heads than he or I, and nothing happened. Ugh, champion moment, indeed.
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Savage.
That was one of the best fucking gigs I've ever been to in my entire life. The Damned, Sham 69, 999, The Vibrators, The Avengers, UK Subs, Chelsea, Splodgenessabounds, and Ed Tudorpole as MC .... fucking amazing. I got in late and missed ATV, and wandered off for a bite to eat during the TV Smith acoustic set. The only misstep was Hazel O'Connor and the Subterraneans, which I didn't care for at all, really, plus they seemed out of step with the rest of the bands on, but still, the rest of it more than made up for that.
The drummer from the Avengers threw a beer can out into the audience, and it hit me in the shoulder, so I returned the favor with a full can and nailed the kick drum right in the middle of the head, which resulted in a fantastic 'boom.' Drunk and punk, shirtless and with a beer can in each hand ... it was a good day, and I needed it. Indeed, and now I have things to do.
---------------------------------------------------
But it's weeks like this last one that I live for, gang, the good and the bad. I've been cut, burned, bruised, bitten, blistered, kicked, and just generally battered and beaten, both inside and out, but at the end of it all, I came out of it with stories to tell, memories that will stay with me, and things to think about.
So at least it all lets me know I'm still alive.
---------------------------------------------------
Oh, and, of course, the moment you've all been waiting for! The picture of the new tattoo:
There I was, wearing nothing but my briefs and a pair of boxing gloves, pounding the crap out of a scrawny loon from Ghana who was similarly clad, when his girlfriend (a 19-year-old from Maine who doesn't dare tell her family that she's dating a black man in London) tackled me from behind and sent me down. I twisted as I was falling and bruised the left side of my ass, to compliment the bruise I sustained on the right side when I slipped down some wet concrete stairs on the way to the basement sauna. Better than landing on my face. And when I say bruised, I mean the back of my right thigh is purple from my waist to my knee. Hey, if you're gonna do it, do it all the way.
Ambling through Brixton at 2am, limping barefoot, shirtless, and with a head full of whiskey and vodka, with those two and their dog, a mastiff puppy about the size of a horse, desperately seeking someone who would sell us booze on a credit card at that hour, yielded absolutely no results. Neither did inviting a couple of chicks to rub my tattoos and piercings ... and their boyfriends weren't impressed, either, I can tell you that. Good thing that monster of a dog was there.
I did make a wicked pasta sauce, though, according to those two cats, who are also chefs, out of pork and apple sausage, oranges, tomatoes, roasted garlic, red and green bell peppers, onions, and a few other things to make it happy. Yes, indeed, but I can't share all the ingredients, now, can I?
Well, thanks to the bruised and achy legs and the cut on my right heel from stepping on a shard of glass -- in his kitchen, much less, instead of, as you'd rightfully expect, on the streets of Brixton -- I skipped out on work the following morning. There was no way I was going to be able to get up and down those stairs while carrying plates of food. It's not too tragic, I wasn't really scheduled to work anyway, I just told Charlotte I would, since I didn't have school that day, the celebrations of the previous day's final exams being what led to my Brixton adventure in the first place.
I ended up with a couple other mystery cuts and I remember burning my hand on a pot handle, but I can't locate any evidence of that, so it must not have been too bad. Well, fuck all that, anyway.
"This is all ye know, and all ye need to know."
---------------------------------------------------
Well, and here you have it. I have something to rant and rave about, but I can't do it here, so I'll just listen to some Tom Waits to make me feel a little better about things.
And what can you expect when you live a life without roots or direction or any real sense of a plan? It's harder to be a drifter than you'd think, take my word for it, gang, because there is some large amount of comfort to be had from knowing whose face you're going to see when you get home and even simply knowing where home is. Living life by your own rules that no one else quite understands makes the whole game a hell of a lot harder to play.
All I have is Tom Waits and Hunter Thompson to remind me that I'm not the only cracked paranoid weirdo wandering this earth with an exploding heart and a mind that races so fast that only a bottle of whiskey can slow it down enough to go to sleep at night.
I'm tired of being alone, but what other choice do I have?
The score is now 3-0 in 2004, and I'm not winning.
Maybe next year, eh?
And now I sound like a Cubs fan.
But thank God for friends ... I had one just save me from what would probably have turned out to be a savage beating at the hands of about 6 guys, one of whom spit at a girl, which I took serious offense to and started going after the guy. Luckily, both his friends and my friend had calmer heads than he or I, and nothing happened. Ugh, champion moment, indeed.
---------------------------------------------------
Savage.
That was one of the best fucking gigs I've ever been to in my entire life. The Damned, Sham 69, 999, The Vibrators, The Avengers, UK Subs, Chelsea, Splodgenessabounds, and Ed Tudorpole as MC .... fucking amazing. I got in late and missed ATV, and wandered off for a bite to eat during the TV Smith acoustic set. The only misstep was Hazel O'Connor and the Subterraneans, which I didn't care for at all, really, plus they seemed out of step with the rest of the bands on, but still, the rest of it more than made up for that.
The drummer from the Avengers threw a beer can out into the audience, and it hit me in the shoulder, so I returned the favor with a full can and nailed the kick drum right in the middle of the head, which resulted in a fantastic 'boom.' Drunk and punk, shirtless and with a beer can in each hand ... it was a good day, and I needed it. Indeed, and now I have things to do.
---------------------------------------------------
But it's weeks like this last one that I live for, gang, the good and the bad. I've been cut, burned, bruised, bitten, blistered, kicked, and just generally battered and beaten, both inside and out, but at the end of it all, I came out of it with stories to tell, memories that will stay with me, and things to think about.
So at least it all lets me know I'm still alive.
---------------------------------------------------
Oh, and, of course, the moment you've all been waiting for! The picture of the new tattoo:
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
I saw The Damned & Sham 69 in the listings - which i wouldn't have minded seeing if I'd been aware of it a few weeks ago - but didn't realise all those other old-school punk bands were on too
Have a good Christmas (once you've got over the flight)
See you in the new year then - sans injuries I hope
Have a good one (& if you are online over there watch for yet another name change (just for Christmas
Ciao
Grace & Peace,
Brian
PS I do recall metting you btw
If you have contact with allen please tell him how proud I am of his wife and family!