This Is Getting Old

     As I plummet toward middle-age and the proverbial back nine of life, there are a few punk rock tropes that I'm glad I never fell into.  Clutching tightly to the music and ethos of a rebellious youth gets harder and harder as the years go by.  Standards and opinions that were once carved in stone have now become malleable and needed to change out of necessity as the landscape in front of me was changing.

     I still have trouble comprehending how almost every small club in this town was either up a long, narrow flight of steps or down a long, narrow flight of steps.  Having to drag amps, drums and PA equipment in and out of these places on a regular basis has answered the question of where the cartilage in my knees has gone.  This is also why I have a constant soundtrack of cracking, popping and creaking when I wake up in the morning.  I sound like an old farm house trying not to fall over on a windy night.

     My hearing has taken a merciless beating over the past few decades.  Tinnitus has come into full bloom and I have an almost constant ringing in the ears.  Ear plugs would have been the smart/safe route to go but you don't look cool while wearing them.  Now I'm almost deaf as a post so let that be a lesson to you.

     Since most shows only started at 10:30pm, I wouldn't even leave the house until 9:30.  Now, I'm lucky if I'm still awake at 9pm.  There were times that I'd be out until 5:30am because of post-show breakfast/coffee and not skip a beat regardless of what time I had to be at work the next day.  These days, I'll blow off leaving the house simply because it requires putting on shoes and pants to go out into the world.

     When I buy shoes I have to make sure they have enough cushion in them before I buy them so my feet won't hurt.  The last time I bought a pair of Vans, I had to go with the pro-skater shoe because the insoles are made of memory foam.  That's right, I wear orthopedic Vans.  The last time I bought a pair of Doc Marten's, I had to forgo the traditional eight eyelet boot and go with a work shoe that had more padding.

     Going through the ringer of family court really puts those old school punk rock ethos to the test. That is unstable territory where up becomes down and what's right doesn't always fall in line with the outcome that you're handed when all is said and done.  Being forced to accept decisions that are in no one's best interest is a quite the bitter pill to swallow.

     Having not gone for the punk rock uniform, I never had to be faced with making the concession of giving it up or doubling down on it and looking ridiculous.  I only have a few bad tattoos that are easily covered up by wearing a long sleeve shirt, if the situation calls for it.  Some of the older punks around town can still be seen going about their day to day business in their super tight jeans and denim vests with patches all over them.  The hair is still dyed or bleached and the tattoos are either saggy or stretched, depending on their location.  From the alcoholic bloat, they look like some sort of unfinished Dr. Seuss character that was assaulted by the pencil of R. Crumb, perched upon their skinny legs in their skinny jeans.

     I consider it a failure of my elders for not warning me about ear and nose hair that seems to grow in a constant stream.  For the past decade, I can be witnessed having head twitches as if there were something in my ear.  That's because there is something in my ear.  I have found no hair removal device or amount of tweezing that will adequately restore my sanity.  And my nose hair seems to grow so frequently that I have the same amount at all times regardless of how often I trim it back.  It's to the point to where I want to grow it out long enough to be able to braid it.  I can start a new hipster trend of nose braids.  You can keep your ratty man bun and 1920s boxer mustache, I've got nose braids.