Even more fancy uses for the term "Punk Rock"

I was drunk. So drumdrowned (screwed down) and pie-eyed that friends more aware than I felt inclined to inquire, “you’re not driving, are you?” I wasn’t driving. I was going to take my bike. I love my bike. It fits me well. The time was about two o’clock, in the a.m. Late night. Nearing early morning. The party was starting to wind down. You could tell from all the glassy eyes turning door-ward. I had left my bike at my friend’s house and he was leaving, so I was beckoned to go with, on foot, which I did, to get my bike, which I did. I started riding it. The wind whipped around my face and hair in a pleasing way. It pooled up in my ear orifices as a constant reminder that I was moving. I was swerving a bit. But, it was very controlled. Like the way people flail about in a loose controlled fashion when they are practicing martial arts with names like “Drunken Fist”, and…that other Brazilian one…you know. Like that. More a widening of stance than a lessening of ability. I rode through the barren sleepy river town streets. I soon wheeled by the following scene: A house, probably built around the 1920’s or 30’s. quaint cottage style. Remnants of Victorian influence smattered about. Pronounced staircase tapping the sidewalk. In the yard, on the stairs, on the grassy area on the other side of the sidewalk, on the driveway…things. People’s things. As though the house had had enough of the clutter and in a purging fit, put price tags on several of its contents and threw the bulk of them up. It was an unmanned garage sale. I stopped my bike. I figured on one of two things; a) they had left these things wanting late night shoppers to peruse at their leisure, and, expecting them to be honest, leave money on the stairs somewhere. Or b) they were just too lazy to cover and/or move things, and were going to start back up the next day, and though they would prefer for the items to be left alone, they realized that that was an impossibility and would just settle for people not assuming the things were free and/or taking any large amount of them. The things were too nice to just be free, and I didn’t see any “Free” signs or anything. Honestly, regardless of what I might have tried to objectively tell myself the true intentions of the garage sale people were, I was, very deliberately and with many justifications of grandeur, going to leave the scene (in the still of the night) with any such choice items that I might happen to run across. One of the first things that my attention lit upon was a glass-framed poster of a map of Italy. It was one of those folded up maps (purchased in Italy, I deduced from the Lira price tag still attached) that was unfolded and then framed. I wanted it. I put several dollar bills on one of the steps, along with a note explaining what I had taken and contact information should they require more money. I awkwardly held the heavy framed thing up with my left hand, grabbed my handlebars with my right, and took off. I immediately noticed that what was once an amusing multi-wheeled saunter from side to side, had now become a struggle to ride straight. I kept having to readjust my grip on the glass behemoth, and steering seemed to be occupying an annoying amount of my concentration. I was chugging along, but it was cumbersome. And then, I came upon a pile of leaves. I swerved. Too sharply. The front tire stopped cooperating. I attacked the ground from the left side of the bike. My amazingly reflexive body fell limp, anticipating the impact. my upper body surfed the concrete like a skipping stone makes contact with the water prior to its lifting off again. my chest area and left, frame-holding hand hit the ground first, my head momentarily after, the forehead part scraping the ground. Unlike a skipping stone, my inertia vanished and I came to a rest. The glass shattered expertly when it hit. It broke the sleepy silence so efficiently that there seemed to exist an echo, although the conditions were not even close to appropriate for such aural phenomena. I popped right up (thank ye lord, for your numbing alcohols!) I scuttled the framed paper from under the broken glass, making several “tankle” and “scrubble” noises. I left without even checking my wounds. I felt a moist stickiness on the salvaged map in my hand. I remember thinking at the moment that it could be some sort of glue on the back of the poster. You know, like wallpaper paste or something. When I was almost home, I realized that it was my blood on the map. Lots of it. I had cut my hand on the glass. My forehead hurt. My knee was scraped. I smeared blood on my front door as I opened it. I put my bike in the corner, washed off my cut bloody hand, grabbed a paper towel, folded it appropriately and scotch taped it around my bloodiness. My forehead and knee were tame and manageable and had stopped bleeding already. They were just very scraped. Road rash, etc. I investigated and found no other cuts. I set the map out for the blood to dry. It is my cherished prize. It is up on my wall today, dried blood streaming across like fingers of a river. Because the glass fiddled only with my lower palm, my bandaged hand still types with the accuracy that I am used to. I can even play guitar still. I can’t wear a hat, and it hurts to furl my brow. But, I have a feeling that this head wound might appear “manly” or “sexy” to some. That’s probably mostly projection. Because, very seriously, pain makes me feel powerful. Like I’ve been through something (and succeeded!…and SURVIVED!!!). Makes me exude a confident fatigue. An accomplished nonchalance. Like I am a deserved recipient of the admiration associated with utterances such as “now that, my friend, is punk rock.” …I think I’ll get another tattoo…

Patio Rock

Be Brave Bold Robot at the Delta of Venus, in the outside patio area, in late 2005