Such a liberating experience, the old school mosh pit.
I was more of a philosopher when I played in punk bands, when I was still physically able to take the auditory strain of pogoing amongst sweaty bodies up near the amplifiers and the P.A. speakers, able to cockfight and breathe within the stifling irradiated heat of The People.
But, alas, I ended up "growing up," like everyone else, blowing out my knee, tearing ligaments in my shoulder, and being forced closer towards the entropy of eventual maturity and decay.
To this day, I believe watching the Ramones live, one of the last concert-goers in the States to see the legendary punk act during their final tour in 1996, changed my worldview forever.
Blame Johnny's right-wing militarism and Joey's New Left, wallflower idealism. Blame all the other punk and hardcore shows I've been to, the mohawks and the spiked collars and the post-show malt liquor and the straight-edge militant Vegan lectures at four in the fucking morning.
Wouldn't trade it for the world, really.
Kids today get a lot of slick marketing and corporate manipulation from so many bands, even a few decent songs to sing along to in the shower. But they will never see anything as beautiful as the simple absolute of the Ramones.
Every human being is an individual. And sometimes individuals get along, agree with one another, form communes, political parties, ideologies, movements, even governments and revolutions. All men and women are equal in their independence, in thoughts and of separate bodies, detached except in moments of conjoined birth defects and copulation.
And when we disagree, ideologically or through different conclusions, we fight or we are conquered.
We are alone, even when amongst many. And without time alone, private time outside of the pit, the beast that is humanity swallows you whole and leaves a bloody carcass on the floor for the stage hands to clean up.
That, my friends, you learned in the pit.
C'est la vie.
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For the past few weeks, my normally solitary Fortress of Motherfucking Solitude had become a home-away-from-chaos for several local students, siblings of exes, polite yet boundary-challenged blog readers from four different universities, a couple of friends of the Italian Backpacker Fling needing a place to crash on their own American trek, even random drunk girls who mistakenly blacked out in my pickup on subzero nights.
Finally had to institute a new set of rules - no "dropping in because you're in the neighborhood" or sending mobile emails from PDAs saying that you're in Oxford, looking to find The Zenformation Professional and to have a couple of beers.
It sucks to be a dick about it, but, well, sometimes a dude just needs a bit of privacy. It's nice to have company at times, even for loners such as myself. But, well, I have my limits.
I'm good at playing the extrovert online. My solitary self, however, needs time to recharge and recover.
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Don't get me wrong: I appreciate the fact that so many folks think I'm a decent guy, that I write interesting tales and make a rather ho-hum podunk American college town sound like a higher education pulp novel.
And I find meeting the people who read this - people other than friends or subjects of some posts - fascinating. I'm grateful that folks still read my rather random bullshit.
But we're not buddies or pals simply because you may read this site, and my home and certain private details concerning relationships are not open to you. I'm probably not the best person to rely on to spill your guts to about relationship problems or roommate issues, not some sort of online/offline hybrid confession booth.
Sure, we can hang out, maybe grab a beer or a cup of coffee - when our schedules sync. I'd love to meet you. And maybe we'll hang out again after that.
I'm not, however, Oxford Fucking Ohio's all-seeing guru of knowledge and wisdom, I probably won't like your friend's band's demo, don't respond to "media release" emails asking for endorsement of groups or causes, and I'm generally annoyed when people I don't know off this web site try to play motherfucking matchmaker.
(Friend's cute, chica, but, yeah, kinda creepy.)
I'm just a 30-year-old librarian with a slightly skewed take on life. And I blog in my spare time, earn no income off of this, and, well, when things get hectic offline or I need some space, that's my No. 1 priority.
Sorry, again, if that makes me sound like an asshole.
We all need our personal space in order to survive, establish boundaries to keep ourselves sane, and generally like some privacy for ourselves.
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