the boy next to me in the black hoodie smells like a very old bong... i don't know him and he doesn't seem particularly lit... and, besides, i'm nobody's boss... nobody's cop... here at the hot wheels roller rink... just a guest.. a paying customer (so how - you ask - does brtom know what a very old bong smells like? and he replies: brtom did not pop out of some hollow log just last week) a visitor... this is not my territory... lots of carmel kids are here... some come right over to say hi... some keep their distance... some few seem kind of ticked off ("what's he doing in our place")... but this is just me projecting insecuritiy all over the place... i never ever feel right in "a social setting."

i'm here to hear... and hearing here.. the jays, "a ska-rific band" featuring the trombonified antics of alex g... the sax stylings of eric s.... the thumpering bass of tyler c... and trumpet, drums, guitar/vocals by three younguns i don't know. lots of cool moves... a great beat... way easy to dance to... but that is not permitted... the skate ref polices the crowd, plucking out illicit jumpers and surfers and shouldersitters... and i understand... its a very small space back by the whatchamacallit.... that hand shuffleboard hockey table game... that's it, i think, table hockey. you wouldn't want much moshing back there... near all those hard edges.

the music is as good as it ought to be... proposing hot jumping dreams of smokey london clubs (no, not kingston... this is homage to second gen ska... the punk gen of the specials et al) in the deracinated context of a suburban illinois skating rink... what's got into these kids... liking the music enough to learn it so well... ska smiles in yr ears... proposes that you jump it up and down (which we can't, of course... but which limit the music just don't care about... DANCE, it insists - not unreasonably)... but i'm no good for jumping anyhow... been clinging to a heating pad all day... popping motrin... for a stupid back thing...

...and should have brought my camera... i'm out of practice...all around

i wasn't going to go tonight... i was going to stay home and play old man... i was going to write a wistful wise entry on the fresh splat of birdshit on my window... really... look

Truly fertile Music, the only kind that will move us, that we shall truly appreciate, will be a Music conducive to Dream, which banishes all reason and analysis.

Albert Camus

 

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