Grunge

It is the stage of the wasted. The night of bleeding beer or scotch and the burning of our hearts in these nocturnal psychedelic pot hullabaloos. It is the time of our lives. The cursing off at the top of our lungs, the age when the use of the four-letter words is at the loveliest. F*ck. It is loveliest. Tonight, I am The Who and Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead. You are Janis Joplin, my rock n’ roll.

I could really feel myself right now either headbangin’ or moshpittin’ or both, along with these Minneapolis kickasses from the Replacements to Soul Asylum to the Suicide Commandos. Smelling the collective addictive piss/pot/puke scents of Manhattan’s CBGB while Ramones or The Heartbreakers or the Voidoids are smashing the shit out of their guitars or drums or what-have-yous. Or freaking out with a peace sign at the wild helm of a crowd of 70s Bistro in Manila. I miss these days of disquiet, the mohawks and thrashing around and all these crazy, stupid get-ups. These days when I called the shots and when bravery was like accepting that I could be f*ckin’ dead at any moment of this generation without fear or regret.

And you look at me. Yes. Dammit, yes, you look at me, lovely b*tch. And your eyes, your eyes are saying let’s do it tonight. Your eyes are rounded and black and purple and are singing Velvet Underground’s After Hours. “Say hello to never,” I hear your eyes blabbing, sounds like alcoholic gulping. I would have kissed you right there and then but you were blabbling all those words. Hello to never. Hello.

2011