The Face of Punk

Now that the process is over I can write about it.

I sold a gift. A Christmas gift from Matt to me.

And I feel guilty about it.

Matt bought me tickets to go see the Dropkick Murphy’s for Christmas. Their … quirky. Their …. a little out there for me. Their …. fun. How do you not love a band that comes up with a drinking, carousing song titled, Kiss Me I’m Shit Faced? It has everything – a thick Irish accent, bagpipes, vulgarity and humor. What’s not to like??

They are a punk band though, and I am suburban white bread. As much as I love the idea of rocking out to a CD in my SUV, the thought of getting caught up in a mosh pit filled with unwashed masses sporting piercings and tattoos gave me the cold sweats.

Plus, being completely honest, from the get go the idea of being out late on a Thursday night also gave me the cold sweats. Listen people, I go to bed at 9:30. The opening act wasn’t even going to start until 8pm. Not conducive for getting up at 5am.

When our tried-and-true babysitter backed out on us, it was a fairly easy decision. Let’s just sell the tickets.

Our friend Craig’s List gave us a buyer within a day, and in fact I just handed over the tickets to the lucky *ehem* lady an hour ago.

After talking to the buyer a few times on the phone, I started to have my doubts about the sale. She was SO nice. I kept thinking to myself, maybe I could show up in my cable knit sweater and pink Puma’s and not look like a fool. Maybe everyone will just be wandering around with pints and clinking with random strangers like a big transplanted pub. MAYBE I might even be able to dance and not feel like a fool.

If this girl can do it, why not me???

Then I met her. Whooo Nelly.

Crazy black eye makeup, without the flawless skin and bone structure that makes it work. Three piercings on her tongue. Yeah you read that right. Three. A stud in the middle and little hoops to the left and right. Completed by enough skull wear to open up her own punk boutique.

Ahhh. Me and my pink Puma’s will be staying home and enjoying a fine Zinfandel. Or maybe a glass of Guinness, sans mosh pit. Unless Grace decides to start one….