Today’s bus ride into work transported me back in time 21 years.
The guy who embarked at Sixth and Monmouth wore camouflage slam-dance pants laden with straps and zippers, black 10-eye steel-toe Doc Martins, a 5” Mohawk and a black leather jacket covered in steel rivets and a huge Dead Kennedys logo hand painted on the back.
Everyone on the bus stared-some openly, some stealing sidelong glances. Everyone stared but me. I was too busy waiting in line at The Jockey Club, one block to the west. I was standing once again on the grimy tiled floor; trying to steer clear of the mosh pit; attempting to stay cool despite the humid press of sweaty flesh surrounding me; chugging Foster’s Lager in oilcans. I was consumed with watching Jello Biafra pose and preen on stage, his green rubber surgeon gloves slick with sweat.
Snapping back to 2006 as the bus pulled up to my stop, I told the guy I’d seen the Dead Kennedys in Newport back in 1985. “Wow,” he mused, “I wasn’t even born yet!”