Nostalgia

Call me Ishmael.

Or Vincent. I'd much rather prefer Vincent, actually, but if you can't do that, I guess Ishmael'll do just fine. I was just minding my own business one night (this night, maybe about 20 minutes ago, actually) when a certain Mr. Alex KAISER demanded that I contribute to his forcibly collectivized 'Zine. Being an old-school pinko-commie from way back when, I wholeheartedly agreed to, under the understanding that it was to be understood that I worked alone. No partners; I've seen enough cop movies where an obnoxiously feminine male partner, an actual female partner, a foreign film martial arts star, or a large, ugly (but strangely cute and adorable) dog, or all of the above, have stolen the hearts and the spotlight of the public, while wearing down the prejudices of the tough, gruff, gritty cop, revealing the hidden heart of gold under the rough exterior exoskeleton, excreted by those that have lived a hard knock life on the streets. And I won't have none of that. Beverly Hills Cop 2 was okay, I guess. But I draw the line there. The line, of course is not what is important here. What is important is that I am now a contributor to the good ship Astrotrain. Which is pretty Boss, if you ask me.

Anyways, since I have nothing else to talk about, I'll talk about my old days in the Vibrant San Jose Punk scene of the late 90's and early 2000's. It's practically 2005, and I think enough time has passed that one can be nostalgic about it and get an I LOVE THE 90'S show on VH1. This, however, was not exactly the Golden Age of the Scene. Nor would it be safe to say it was the Silver or Bronze Age. I'm kind of hesitant to call it the Steel age too. I guess the Balsa Wood age fits.

So back in the glorious days of the Balsa Age, San Jose was run by punks rockers. Downtown was a DIY wasteland. Your average punk rocker could look around in pride at all he surveyed, before he got back to chugging a 40 and sitting on the curb in front of the Cactus Club. Many a show at the Cactus would be full past the limits prescribed by the Fire Marshal for such facilities.

One such show was headlined by the avant-guard emotional hardcore band The Ataris, and I infact attended this show. I though showing up late managed to run into my good friend Morgan Chivers, yes, THE Morgan Chivers immortalized in the south bay Ska classic "The Chivers", by the The Other Left, and he allowed us to cut in line with him. I say "we" of course because I was with my good Friend Daniel, and my girlfriend at the time. Struggling together, we managed to make our way through the tightly packed club, world famous for its bad sound system, and settle ourselves near the front of the stages while the always artistically clever Kris Roe sang his songs of heartbreak and woe. Dancing was rather impossible, due to the limited capacity of the venue, though we did in fact bob our heads. Around the middle of the set, Daniel left towards the back, leaving us to totally make out. Little did I know that this high light of the night was to come quickly to an end.

Towards the end of some song, I dunno which, I didn't really like the band that much enough to know all their songs, but towards the end, a young gentleman jumped up on stage and began to dance, before dropping his pants to show off some fashionably boxers. Roe, that master stageman, asked the young man his name, allowed him to dance some more, before jumping into the next song. Whoever he was stage dived and was carried somewhere towards the back.

Amused, we carried on making out. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I spied another young man climbing on stage. He was probably a bit intoxicated, in spite of his age, which I judged to be about 15, 16 at most. This young man climbed on stage, not waiting for the end of the song, and jumped wildly up and down. I laughed at the sight. He then proceeded to strip completely naked. Once completely naked, he jumped wildly even more, and then stage dived.

On to me.

Confusion reigned! The flopping of body parts was rampant! The gasp of the audience was absorbed by the static distortion of raving guitars! Recovering from shock, the crowd surged forth, and the young man was carried towards the back, away, away, into the annals of history, and onto the website that you now read, and, I guess he got kicked out of the club without his clothes, or something.

So the band kept playing, and we kept making out and that was cool, I guess.

The End

Theodore Dostoevsky