incident with a bottle of mustard

It's now been my repeated experience that damage attracts more damage.

E


nraged! That's me. I woke up this afternoon and went in the kitchen to fix a sandwich. It was going to be a good day. It's Friday for Christ's sake. Someone had stolen a loaf of bread I'd bought yesterday. It wasn't really stolen, it was in the freezer for some reason, but I didn't know that. So I ran around the house looking for it and cursing louder and louder as it became clear I wouldn't find it. That's when I found the me - too manifestation of rich - kid - on - my - own - for - the - first - time - punk - rock - excess. Someone had painted "it doesn't matter" in black paint on the wall under the window that Deya broke the other day. Seeing this, I was made all the more angry!

This wall graffiti confirmed all my fears about what happens when punk rock damage is left unmended. It's now been my repeated experience that damage attracts more damage. Someone sees a broken window and says to himself

"Cool, these people are very very punk rock! And cooler still, this sort of punk rock thing is tolerated by the very cool people living here! I wonder how I can be punk rock too. Hmmm, how about if I break something? It would probably be best if I broke something near where the current punk rock breakage is; it seems that that's where it's tolerated. I don't want to piss these guys off, but I do want them to think I'm cool!"

Despite my rage, or maybe because of it, I immediately set to the task of cleaning up the graffiti. It seems it was done in mildly water-soluable paint, but cleaning it off still took off the top layer of wall paint and left a lighter colour behind. Someone's going to have to touch that up before we move out.

I haven't been that destructive since I tore up my dorm room during my first real broken heart.

I also figured out how the broken window would be repaired (no doubt by me; no one else is competent to do such things in my house). As I tugged at the broken shards of glass, my hand slipped and I poked a hole in my thumb. I began bleeding immediately. Disgusted, I flicked blood at the wall. But then I thought better of myself and cleaned it up. My rage was contained behind a stretchy line of common sense; I kept exceeding boundaries into the realm of absurdity and destruction and then drawing back into rationality.

I returned to the kitchen to continue with the task of fixing myself a sandwich. The day still had a chance of being a good one; it was still Friday, after all.

But then I couldn't find my mustard. I need mustard to fix an acceptable sandwich, and I'm the only one in the whole house who ever gets any. Suddenly I saw my mustard. It was sitting on the kitchen counter, open, with a spoon in it, three-quarters full. No doubt flies had crawled over it all day. That was it. Talk about anger! I jumped up and down and shouted at the top of my lungs. Then I went into the living room and knocked over the coffee table (gently; I didn't want to break anything) and then turned over the couches. Finally I took my bottle of mustard and threw it into the floor in front of the door. It splattered yellow everywhere. I left the house in disgust, before anyone else came home.

I don't think I've been that angry for a very long time. And I haven't been that destructive since I tore up my dorm room during my first real broken heart (Spring, 1989).



And the other day Jen came home to find Ami and Monster Boy all gothed out in black eyeliner.

I


  rode my bike down to the Downtown Mall. On the way I picked up 750 mL of cheap vodka in a convenient flat plastic bottle. Cory the Java Hut girl sold me a cup of ice coffee and I added the vodka to it and began drinking. As usual for a sunny summer Friday afternoon, the mall was crowded with people. A guy with a German accent entertained an enormous crowd by juggling various objects while riding on an extremely tall unicycle. He had a wireless mike and a PA system so he could better address the crowd. I didn't stay long enough to see him extract their dough.

Down in the Downtown Artspace, I chatted with Jenfariello and her housemate Sam. The latter says he's dating a girl and the former told me some front line news of the little thing going on between Ami Sage and Monster Boy. It seems that Ami's been playing lots of Nine Inch Nails and other fine goth music. And the other day Jen came home to find Ami and Monster Boy all gothed out in black eyeliner. This isn't as strange as you might think; back when she was 15, Ami was reportedly a full-fledge goth. These days, though, she has an aura of maturity that would seem to run counter to such things. They must be pretty happy together; we rarely see Monster Boy around Kappa Mutha Fucka anymore. The thing with Ami and Monster Boy all happened so suddenly; apparently it started the night of the Curious Digit at the Tokyo Rose. His thing with Deya was equally sudden both at the beginning and the end.

flaming in meatspace

T


he mall was very crowded when I returned to it. Something about this first sunny day after a week of rain and cold seemed to bring the humanity out from in front of their televisions. The bums all sat on the benches under the trees, the especially young punk-types were over by the fountains.
One of these punks shouted my name.

A number of young (very young) punk rock ladies were present, and he probably was seeking to impress their prosimian emotions with his tack-sharp wit and manly savagery.

About this time Chaz stood between me and the skinny dark boy with his arms outstretched, magnanimously urging calm to his supporter and gently advising me to leave for my own safety.

This was definitely an escalation; you can email vitriol but you can't email saliva.

I walked over to him; he was a skinny dark boy surrounded by the familiar faces of the nameless people I aways see habitually wasting their time there, including that 14 year old thug named Chaz who caused such problems at Space Party II. Apparently the skinny dark boy had been surfing the web and stumbled upon musings and not liked what he's seen of my writing about his hero, Chaz the thug. I don't fully understand the sociology of charisma, but for some reason Chaz has what it takes to be adored by certain in his social group, so much so that they will make fools of themselves on his behalf. The skinny dark boy wanted to know why I'd written such bad things about Chaz. He didn't criticize my veracity, he apparently just felt it important to express his support for Chaz. He did so in a most verbally savage manner, hoping no doubt to improve his social status in the process. A number of young (very young) punk rock ladies were present, and he probably was seeking to impress their prosimian emotions with his tack-sharp wit and manly savagery. Not that either were especially impressive; he kept a serious look on his face whilst delivering a humourless string of abusive clichés. By contrast, I couldn't keep from smiling. I was somewhat intoxicated and not in the least bit fearful despite being gravely outnumbered. I found the display most entertaining, if also rather puzzling.
The skinny dark boy posed no physical threat whatever; his body had none of the bulk of adulthood and in any case kept out of reach (not that I had any desire to hit him). I asked him his name and he refused to tell me, saying he feared being mentioned on the internet. About this time Chaz stood between me and the skinny dark boy with his arms outstretched, magnanimously urging calm to his supporter and gently advising me to leave for my own safety. I didn't have any fear and wanted to extend the interaction as long as possible, but it wasn't going anywhere, so I decided to leave. About that time the skinny dark boy spit a prodigious amount of saliva through the air; it hit me square in the face. This was definitely an escalation; you can email vitriol but you can't email saliva. I wiped it off my suddenly serious face and tossed the remains of my vodka/coffee cocktail into his fac. He fell backwards as if subject to a firing squad. It wasn't the highest use of an alcoholic beverage, but for my own dignity I had to retaliate. In the process I splashed one of the adjacent punk rockers, who started shouting at me too. What a situation! What a riot! I turned away and walked calmly. The skinny dark guy ran up behind me and slapped the back of my head lightly with his open hand, like a girl, only more weakly. Sara Poiron has inflicted more injury. It seemed this was a face-saving move, designed to show he wouldn't take iced coffee in his face lying down. It reminded me of the chapter of James Michener's Centennial in which an Indian jumps off his horse and harmlessly touches another guy to "take coup" as a symbol of bravery. Up until that point he and everyone else had kept their distance like I was a rabid skunk gone snarling and foaming through a Boyscout camp.
The skinny dark boy shouted "are you going to stab me in the back?" I suppose he was referring to the time Persad stabbed Eric the Huffanator Huffman. We who don't like skinheads are all the same, don't you know.

I bought another cup of coffee from Cory the Coffee Cart girl and then returned to the middle of the mall. By this time a half dozen or so bike-mounted cops had arrived. I chatted some with KC while the cops went round interviewing people. I had a huge smile on my face as I flashed a hippie V-fingered peace sign and blew it like a kiss to the punk upon whom I'd inadvertantly spilled coffee; he grabbed his tittie in response. The one on his chest, not his girlfriends'. About this time Matthew Hart, Deya, Rory and Leah arrived. I was so happy to see people supportive of my cause that in my mind I immediately forgave them for the fucked-up situation at home.

A cop asked me what had happened, and I truthfully explained it all. He told me that what normally happens at such time is that both parties are asked to leave the Mall. This seemed reasonable, so I turned over my bike key to Rory so he could ride it back to Kappa Mutha Fucka and rode with my housemates in a car on loan from Sarah "Rosy" Rosenthal.

usual drunken haze followed by passing out

W


e talked a little about the incident on the mall, but more pressing was the mustard issue back at the house. That's when I learned who had done which fucked-up things. Deya had done the graffiti, rationalizing it by saying we were going to have to paint the walls anyway. And Leah had left my mustard out. She says she'll buy me more. As already stated, I was in a forgiving mood and these explanations, excuses and promises satisfied me.

We went to Farmer Jack and bought lots of "40s" (the big 40 ounce bottles of beer that homies like to drink in the hood). I shoplifted a bottle of Pink Grapefruit Mad Dog, that's how drunk I was.

I don't remember much of what happened next. Monster Boy was at the house and had righted his couches, Leticia the Brazilian Girl turned up, and I did a bad job of cleaning up the mustard in the living room. Then we all set out on another mission to the Downtown Mall. Avoiding the cops, we went to the outside dining area at Millers. There we came across the old Dynashack contingent (now including Catherine deGood), as well as Jenfariello and Ami Sage. I passed out on the drive home and soon was in bed.

All the others (including the post-Dynashackers) had a fairly big party at the Brick Mansion in the 'Hood. When I awoke at 5am, I found Rory in the rocking chair on the front porcg and Deya and Leticia just getting back from the party. They were kind of drunk, but not disabled. We all went our separate ways to bed, but my mind was so full of thoughts that I had trouble falling asleep. What a day full of passions!

---

View an index of links concerning skinheads and skinhead violence in Charlottesville.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?970725