The best thing about me is honesty. It makes me a polarizing presence; basically a snake. I pretty, slow-moving and prone to attack when startled. Snakes are primal. When they look at your, they see nothing. You have to either interact or look like food to get my attention. But really my attention is of dubious value.
I’m that asshole you want to fuck.
Do women wear less and less clothing as every festival winds down or is it just a punk thing? Clothing should never be a reason to stay home.
I want The Gloryholes to play my birthday. You think I’m kidding but I’m not. I won’t rule anything out until I actually hear the word NO.
Any party at the P&H on Sunday is worth the cover. Even if you are here alone, this is a magical place and should be respected. Or maybe I have a crush on the owner. Who cares? The weekend of punk in Memphis is spectacular and as one of the geriatric punks, Sunday fits the format.
High energy, practiced, fun shows from performers that have fun even when there’s no audience. It helps that I have date rape fantasies about the band members. I also love a good show.
Cover music is always fun. It’s better than karaoke and people are less afraid to dance to songs from their youth.
It’s hot in here. Fo sho.
I was at the Lamp earlier.
I want to go on record that fear is the mind killer and should not be used for motivation. No matter how cute the acronym is.
The first day of Memphis Punk Fest was rocktacular. I reserve a special place in my heart for metal bands. I love the energy and passion pouring out of these bands. The fans take that and serve it right back up so there’s a continuous loop of loud fun and reckless abandon.
I’m dedicating my 100th post to the Memphis Punk Festival. I just showed up for the opening show at Murphy’s. The crowd is high energy and ready to go. I’m here early because at 7pm I need to go visit Amurica for the Spillit slam. The theme is music, so I feel like it’s a respectable detour from the festival. Not to mention I can’t wait to tell a story. After that, all music all the time. Or something.
I’m terrified. Of the stage, not the story. I don’t have all my details hammered down but I’ve gone over the idea for almost a month. I just need to go up there and not stumble on my words. I even wore sexy underwear for luck.
The band just started up and everyone came alive. It’s superb metal. I think Spit is playing. I wanted to stay for the Cheerbleeders especially but it doesn’t look like I’ll get the chance. There’s something about scream-singing that comforts me. I want to believe I could find that thick mix of honey and gravel deep down in my own chest but I would probably giggle when I try.
And now I have a crush on the bass player. He looks like a handsome version of my 9th grade boyfriend.
Heads nodding
In approval
Bodies jitter
To the beat
Noise wavesCrashing against
Faces and walls
Excitement mixed
with body odor
and heat.
I find out information
Just by listening
What I do with it
Is the real secret
Without intervention
People are uninteresting
Raised by baby boomers
In cocoons of false praise
Never trusting, always lusting
She wears a tie
That dangles
Between breasts, fully covered
The only thing between me
And that mountain
Of bad decisions
Is a thin film of respect
A pulsating mass
Of unidentifiable guilt
Slouches against my will
Power of integrity
I am the sun and the moon
I have not begun to shine
because the world is not ready for me
The pretention
The pride
MY TIMING IS GREAT.
I am trained to do the things you taught me
and I am BORED.
My anger swells and I need a place for therapy.
Look at me. I’m art. I’m pretty. I’m the thing you want. Media loves me. I’m great with the tweens.
I know what I am.
So why am I still sad?
Why am I alone and afraid and looking for a reason to keep going?
I am the abyss. Look into me.
On second thought, Take a picture, it’ll last longer.
I’m tired of apologizing. I’m tired of being afraid.
I work hard and I’m ready to be here.
Do your worst. I’m not backing down.
At age 14, I was a punk. I don’t remember all the details, but the major signs were there. I frequented the Coffee Cellar, read zines and put RAPE stickers on stop signs all over East Memphis. I got my ear cartilage pierced at a mall kiosk on a 9th grade field trip and I threw a punk-tacular fit when my parents held me down to rip it out. According to the millenial punk rating system, the music I like from that era qualifies me as a fifth level punk. So you can trust me when I say the 3rd annual Memphis Punk Festival is worth your attention. Continue reading Punk Fest 2015