Wallflowers Bloom In Basement Stairwells
I used to be a wallflower at the punk show. Standing in back like those cool people in that Jawbreaker lyric or Peter Parker, replete in sweater vest a tour song well defined. I watched everyone else participate, slunk in the corner like a ragdoll in required black hoodie, shock of auburn hair, drooped over crooked glasses. '90s indie fashion or a Weezer video extra, the early days of emo. A backpack possibly slung over my shoulder, and a lack of beer in my hand, made me stand out, an awkward clown, never a joiner. Even though I loved the volume of the music, the warmth of the room, distinguished from the blustery, wintery outside, I found it hard to join. These states never get warm. The band never breaks a string. Once I finally joined and met the people in the room, I became a figure in the scene, with my own nickname and relevance. Seldom a band member, I was the eternal commenter, the guy who could talk records, a legend in my hometown. Like that irredeemabl...
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