I asked my pal Amy if she wanted to go check out 100 Watt Clock's final show in Austin (and supposed penultimate show ever) with me down at the Bates Motel, but she was in one of those moods where no matter what you ask the person, they're going to answer "no." So I grabbed my stickered-up helmet (It's not that I support the fuckless helmet law, it's just that I can't pay for a ticket), hopped on the old Huffy, and pedaled my way to 6th Street solo.
The kid's influence must have been rubbing off on me, cuz I pulled a total Amy and got there way too early. It was 10, but the first band wasn't even setting up yet, which I wouldn't have minded except for the fact that I had come alone and didn't know anyone who was there really. I decided to go for a walk, maybe get some junk food or a pack of cigs at the gas station out by the free parking under the highway. I walked east, past all the frat kid clubs and the dorky dance clubs, and into that scary, dark strip of 6th St with the seafood place with a Singapore John's across from it. I hurried through the crowd of men asking for change and went into the little corner store.
I had been carded there once before by the clerk who'd shaken her head in disbelief upon seeing my Texas Driver's License with a 1975 b-day on it. She recognized me and waved away my offering my ID upon purchase of the addictive little drug delivery devices, saying a few kind words, hoping not to offend me again on the embarrassing age issue. I don't really mind people thinking I'm a kid; it can be cool actually. I was going to see a movie with a friend a couple of weeks ago and they gave me a child admission at the window, but Megan, who is younger than I am had to pay the adult rate. There's always a positive side to this kind of thing.
Well, I got back to the club and there were a few more people there; I even recognized a few of the faces, but I sat down alone and started smoking and then that irrational desire to drink a beer took hold of me. I couldn't help but notice that LoneStar tallboys were on special...and the whole pitiful state that many LoneStars and a quart of Miller had gotten me into just a few weeks before was forgotten as thoughts of the relaxed confidence that mild intoxication brings me drifted into my mind.
I went up to the bartender and ordered myself a can of potential Hell. He placed the liquid crap on the bar and pulled the tab for me, then I carried it to my table with the thought "...just one tonight, just drink one or you'll regret it" wafting through the spaces in my head. I downed it in no time like the water it was and let the not so gentle effects numb me to my previous inhibited reserve with my aquaintances. I went up to several people and spoke with them momentarily, but as I spoke I gained the awareness that whatever points I had gained in the confidence department were lost in the coherence and intelligence areas. So much for the idea that beer would improve the evening.
100 Watt Clock
went on. I made my way to the front of the crowd of sweaty, messy haired, cool dorks and stood by a guy who had almost as much of a coordination problem as myself. I just let the fugazi's-little-brother sounds of those fellas sweep through me, let those rhythms that I'd memorized after the first couple of shows slip out through my limbs and cause my frame to rock and sway.
This story originally appeared in 86PoP #2. Illustrations by dinki.
click here for a another view of the show
or
Go Home, Dork