Behold the beauty of internet commenter Ken M, the best troll of all the trolls.
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But You Can Never Go Back There Again
Knowing it was high time I got out of Gloucester for an evening over the weekend, my buddy and all around super cool dude Joey said, “Let’s go to NH to this hardcore show. It’s at a Chinese food place, so, you know, Mai Tais.” Sold. This is how I grew up, after all – crappy bars that let underage kids in as long as they weren’t drinking, screaming punk rock played at top volume and somewhat varied in quality – anywhere between “moderately terrible” and “sorta listenable”, where there was always someone in a mohawk manning a merch table of buttons and cassette tapes.
I’ll pretend it was as cool as this but it so never was.
The good part about having a lot of tattoos, pink hair, and an enviable, rainbow assortment of Chuck Taylors is that it allows me to shapeshift, somewhat and fit in with a younger crowd. I’m 31, for the record – which is actually a fucking weird age, these days. But when I got to the show I realized that sure, I look like these kids, I’m even the same age as some of them; but times have changed for me.
You have no idea how deep into Facebook I had to search for relics of my teenage life. Why did we love 40ozs so much?
There’s a line from Scenes From an Italian Restaurant, a barely-passable Billy Joel song, about Brenda and Eddy, who got married young (in the summer of 75!), and then divorced – and struggled with their identities after that, not being able to return to the lives they led before they got married. “They couldn’t go back to the greasers, the best they could do was pick up their pieces.” And for whatever stupid reason, that line keeps echoing through my head…like a life lesson I’m about to learn the hard way. Not that Billy Joel should give anybody life lessons.
I got in to the bar, which was unbearably lit, and immediately ordered a drink. Turns out it’s been a long time since I’ve been to a bar that tapes the empty cardboard 12 pack boxes to the wall to let you know their current beer selection. I’m kind of used to charcuterie plates and small-batch locally crafted cider, because I’m a dick. I dug through my wallet for cash. After all, I couldn’t go giving the bartender my Platinum Cashback Rewards Card, that says “Member since ’06” along the bottom, because they’d be on to me right quick, sniffing me out as a total square. Nothing says “punk kid” like a solid line of credit nearly a decade in length, right?
Damnit. I really could have used the cashback rewards.
Pushing on into a small, square room with a parquet floor, a band started up which I swear to blog was playing the exact same chords, the exact same style, the exact same unintelligibly growling vocals as the last show I’d been to. It was like I had walked away at the age of 19, and the entire underground, young, hardcore/punk scene had just paused, awaiting my return. The outfits were the same as everything my friends and I wore back then – a teenage girl wearing a spiked vest with a Casualties patch, someone with a Crass tattoo, two or three G.G Allin shirts. Of course. Of course! And why not? It’s not like my generation invented punk rock or even improved it. We were mimicking our cool older cousins and siblings, uncles, and aunts. And so down the line it goes, the same as it was before and probably always will be.
Your humble author as a 17 year old badass (clearly).
I was nostalgic, I admit. I even drank a PBR. It was fun to watch these kids, still full of zeal and hope, do their thing. Until the mosh pit started. Oh, those. Yeah, they’re still happening. I moved further and further back, while Joey enjoyed himself knocking against other people’s fleshy parts and bones, until I was in the rear, up on a chair like I’d seen a family of wharf rats scampering across the carpet, wondering how much insurance this place had in case someone snapped their damn neck. This used to be fun! I used to do this on weekends! What was I thinking?
But time, marriage, kids age you. My life is elementary school pickups, trash day, and the detritus of separating my life from my former husband’s after an entire decade of togetherness, the first adult decade I had. What separated me from that crowd isn’t all about my age, it’s about being in a world where my kids are always begging to play Mario Kart before they’ve finished their chores, property tax hikes, writing deadlines and nagging back pain.
In the end, it was nice to be punk rock KT for a night – surrounded by kids (and adults) creating music, and a scene, and being noisy and imperfect and ALIVE, but it’s a world I can’t return to.
But I’ll find a way to get by.
Sergei II, The Re-sergi-ence
This morning finds both your humble Clameditors suffering not-insignificant hand injuries resulting from a drunken dare to re-create of the “knife scene” in the Sci-fi horror classic “Aliens.” Thus we give today’s The Clam over once again to Sergei Nakhimov, Chief Warrant Officer Second Class of the Russian Federation submarine Vladikavakz. Sergei and crew have been stationed off Gloucester monitoring our communications for the past six months on a mysterious reconnaissance mission ordered by Russian president Vladimir Putin. He has recovered enough from One Direction member Zayn’s retirement to finally grace us with a new post.
Hello Clam humor blog persons! Is again I, your funny friend from under-the-sea who is not adorable singing lobster. Still we are stuck offshore your coast of Gloucester, still I am in communications room monitoring you signals and taking the quiz of Buzzfeed. Apparently ideal DJ name for me is “MC Ramp Dusky.” Okey Dokey!
This Ursula is my kind of babushka. I must go meet her.
Welcome to your summer Yankee dogs! I am hoping you have all feasted on traditional burned meats and salad of potato while wearing logo T-shirt of major corporation as is your custom. In Russia on day of remembrance of Great Patriotic War we dress up in best suit and watch military equipment parade and soldiers kick-marching in shiny boots. Of course, since President Putin is in power this is also how we celebrate Christmas, Mother’s Day, Agricultural Collective Awareness Day and Adopt a Pet Week.
From periscope of submarine I see you have attached many flag to your Stacey Boulevard adjacent to the sea that is my watery prison. I must say is many, many flag. This is something of America I don’t understand. You think if there is one good thing, then better is to have one hundred of good thing. And if one hundred is good then why not one thousand? You see where this goes, Da? At what point is too many flag? Ah, who am I kidding, you are American there is no such thing as “too many.” Point for you is to be able to say “I have more flag than you, face of jerk!” and not to worry when beautiful ocean-side walkway begins to look like more used car dealership in Parsippany New Jersey.
Speaking of pastime, I see on Internet your favorite sport of padded steroid-eating concussion-men is in much trouble for letting air out of ball. This is something you talk endlessly about, for weeks on end. Constant discussion of this has raised anger of chief weapons officer Alexei who sometimes comes by communication bay to watch amusing cat video and to offer me his special drink mixture of refrigeration fluid and fermented beet juice he brew in forward toilet compartment. “Maybe I will turn their city into sea of fire and see how much shit they give about air in ball!” he mumbled a few days ago, holding up key around neck used to launch hydrogen bomb missile and stormed off toward his control station.
He is much kidder, Alexei! First mate and he had good laugh after he was able wrench key from Alexei’s hand and remove from control slot. “For future reference, use half as much refrigeration fluid,” I tell Alexei later when he comes out of coma.
Living in submarine for months with 56 other sailors is sometimes a great challenge for your friend Sergei. Sometime I would watch collectivist family of Duggars on TLC to make self feel better about being confined in small space with so many bodies smelling of sweat and borscht. Show always made Sergei feel happy because even though these many children were squashed together like last traincar out of Norolisk before winter, they always seem happy and are singing and making plays and schooling at home as is the way of your southern United States because they hate so much the fact of science that Jesus could not ride dinosaur.
Is total mystery why your southern states lag behind entire world in education
But now we learn oldest boy Josh is terrible man and has been hurting sisters in gross way (Sergei always found him to be creepy like political officer on Boat who is former KGB). We also learn Josh went to lead something called “Family Research Council.” Sergei studied much science in high school and in Navy to become technical member of nuclear submarine crew. Sergei thinks whatever experiments Josh creep started in “family research” should be halted because his previous experiments are not good to nice girls in family. He is bad scientist of family. Very bad.
In sadness I suggest to Alexei we bomb Josh and maybe also father Jim Bob who is also makes Sergei taste herring pie from last night’s dinner in mouth, but Alexei only said “Worse for America if we let them live!” and then he laughed so many times. As I say, he is great kidder, Alexei.
On last topic, I see in provincial propaganda newspaper Gloucester Daily Times you have election coming. Two men must decide if they truly wish to challenge current unelected mayor who is may or maybe not going to go for voting and also has nickname that ties to gangs of criminal-types. My friends I must tell you this makes me so homesick! Tear comes to eye of Sergei. How I long for us to be heading home to Russia when I read of political situation in Gloucester.
Perhaps next time we talk I will be writing from my own small, cramped apartment in Soviet apartment block rather than small, cramped communication room of Soviet-built submarine. We can only hope! Until then Dosvedanya Tovarisch!
Remembering
There are approximately one zillion flags on Stacey Boulevard. There was a flag so big there the other day it was touching the ground (bad form). Also we have a snappy new WW II Memorial, which is great.
But we at The Clam would love it if you’d also stop by the Gloucester Vietnam Veterans Memorial at the High School and pay your respects today. Like a lot of the vets from that war, this memorial is sort of tucked out of the way.
To be honest, The Clam supports digging that memorial right the fuck up and putting it next to the WW II one. Those guys deserve no less.
From us, to all our Vets and families a sincere thank you. And especially to those from a war some would rather forget.
Matthew P. Amaral III
Killed 12/14/1967
Fuck It Friday: MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND EDITION
