Pointed Sticks Flaming O Rock Show

I got in the car and cracked a fucking beer. The first of three I would drink before arriving in the diseased heart of Sliverville to see the Pointed Sticks - at once the much celebrated and fucking near forgotten punk rock heroes of my distant youth. At twenty minute intervals I pressed one of the fucking buttons on the door of my car which opened the passenger window and threw an empty bottle out the window. Just like the ya-fucking-hoo Happy Days of my youth.

I threw the last bottle out onto the crumbling parking lot of the Flaming O. It was immediately collected by a street crazy who appeared as if he was expecting me. I got out of the car. Locked it. Took a long steamy beer piss into the vacant lot beside the fucking bar. Yet another street crazy appeared from the darkness before I even zipped up offering to blow me for $5 more than the money than it was going to cost me to see the rock show. Been blown by the cast offs of Sliverville in the past of course. Not worth a twenty to be frank.

The show was taking place in the same room I once scored dope and watched the Sliverville Ballet in. The ceiling mirror was still there and a couple black lights remained in working order to help provide what little lighting the club was willing to buck up for. I tried not to think of the distinctive, not quite poisonous, flavour of the cheeseburger specials I once washed down with beer so bad you had to be stoned to drink it.

Opening act was the Pool Sharks. The last three white guys from Richmond apparently. I drank my $5 beer and clapped politely as one does for opening fucking acts.

Shithead was there. The daughter of my old MP. A couple of the grizzled members of the Mud Bay Blues Band. Jade from the Dishrags - one of those women who gets more beautiful with each passing year.

The Sticks played two sets. I got up near the stage to listen. Even with Frank Crass as a last minute fill in for their sick bass player they sounded fucking magic. Two sets. Several Rolling Stones covers. The Ramones “Babysitter.” Several songs I had never heard before including one that was a very nearly perfect rock ‘n’ roll song called “You’re Not the One.” And perfection was literally within reach! All the Sticks needed to do was invite a handful of their smashing looking female fans on stage to add hand claps and it may just have surpassed the Undertones’ “Teenage Kicks” as the best rock ‘n’ roll song ever.

Fuck I had a good time. Nothing tops the Voo Doo ecstasy of a good rock show.

After the show the fucking pigs and the street crazies were fighting in the street as I swerved out of the parking lot and aimed my now deafened self back towards Steepleton. No justice, no peace, motherfuckers.