I was scared. Punk Fight.

Here's something that I have been working on for the Almighty TDC.

It's not pretty, but it's a True Story.

Here is how it starts, but I will have to refine it.

It must be said that I have the luxury of composing a day or two each week of this sort of blog thing for folks at TDC, and I am truly appreciative of this excellent opportunity.

RIchie does this every day, has done it every day, for the last six years, and I stll don't know how in thee hell he does it.

Hoot does his thing on Thursday, as well.

But,

when you have the opportunity to contribute at TDC, well,

You simply do your best.

Or try to.

Here's my latest attempt, which is very rough.




Talk about sitting on a Mountain of White. Just in time for the Heart of the Winter Games, huh? Well, here's the Heart of another story.

There was this other Mountain of White which you, ya TDC Enjoyer, might recollect from last weekend, which I was sitting on with my Punk Brothers, and it got us all in a shit load of trouble...

...with Men Who Were Quite Angry And Also Frightening. And, we'd been "Sipping On Some Sunshine," for free. Their Sunshine. What would you do?

I was scared, man.

No.

I was Mother Fucking Scared. Scared like about to shit and piss in my pants. Let me tell you about the Punk Fight in Vivid HD Detail.

Let's pause here for a moment while you get your weekend game on however you go about it, you TDC Enjoyer. Sip some Java, chug some Dew, smoke a butt, crack an ice cold brewskie, cough on a big-ass-bong hit, have at it.

Not a single one here at the Mighty TDC will ever point their finger at you.

Here's a song while you get yourself all situated. God Bless the Crash Kings. Buy this music, don't steal, brutha. Rock this here bitch from these crazy fuckers.



Now this True Story is not about so much blood and guts, 'cause that ain't my style. Of course, there was that, and plenty, and I'll describe all that to you, because it's what I do, and it will won't pretty.

But what's most important here is what goes on in your head and your body before such a situation occurs, and when it occurs, and, if you survive, what you do after it occurs.

This True Story ends today, if you will only read on. There will be juice boxes and snacks afterward.

It has always been said; "It's not all about what happens to you. It's what you do about it that counts."

All set?

Now hold on tight. It will get nasty, but I'll get you back home and help you into your Snuggie, bandage and wipe the blood off...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


When I was young, I'd never been involved with gangs before in Fuckno, California, except to look straight ahead as they passed in their low riders, playing "Planet Rock" with booming bass while I nervously pedaled along on my ten-speed bicycle, and they yelled out, "Poota," at me as they crept by.

Here is Planet Rock original. Afrika Bambaataa, you Messican.
True but ugly sounding. Ugggh. This is what played non stop in their low riders over and over again, all day long. This hurts my ears.



It might have sounded more like this to them.




Now, this was before I drove a car. After that, I ran into them more frequently, but not in any car accident sort of way.

Or over them, although that would have been funny.

Or not.

But when we began to ski the flaky mountains of Peru, me and my buds still never knew about them or their "codes."

We were as pale as your pimply ass when you were at teen like us, and green as your face the first time you got overly drunk.

But we were punks. And we got into a mess.