Over the years I’ve left the bulk of the political commentary to Zano, which I realize now was a yuuge mistake. It’s too hard to keep up. By the time I send Zano an article, it’s dated before he gets it. After being accused of trying to hit on a 14-year-old boy, Kevin Spacy came out of the closet and admitted he was a Republican. See why this is impossible? This joke was already shit on by Al Franken, Trent Franks, and half of Hollywood. So, amidst this wave of allegations and resignations, I’ve decided to stick with and defend what I know: Sex, Drugs, and Punk Rock & Roll. 

Okay, I just got out of an eternity-term relationship, so I haven’t bought condoms since most of the people reading this were in college. I should probably say kindergarten, but I want to sound younger, you know, in case any hot chicks are reading this. Call me.

Do I go to Walgreens or a grocery store? Nah, what’s the fun in that after? Especially after I noticed there’s a sex shop just a few blocks south of me. Yep, I live in a city again. So, I head over there on my bike, but I need to hurry, because I’m supposed to be meeting a client who will hopefully help support my slacker lifestyle. After the meeting I was going to get help from our camera man, Greg… well, sleeping-in-a-bus Greg, but that’s another story …a story that involves STQ, wild promises and contracts from Pierce Winslow, and then only 12 youtube views.

So yeah, busy day, I was in a hurry.

After heading past the male prostitute, who seemed to think he’d increase his business by heckling and insulting people as they left the store, I headed into the sex shop. The red lit room stretched before me filled with a huge assortment of videos, sex toys, and strangely bongs. Never knew those were sex toys. I suppose you could …. moving on.

I’m so lost, I ask the guy behind the counter to point me toward the condoms. With a smile, he points to a place five feet in front of me. Smooth Boneman. I grab a bunch of different condoms. Seeing some lube, I figure what the hell, and grab a container too.

Right then, back of the bus, Greg calls. When he calls, three thoughts rifle through my head:

So, I answer, and he needs to know when we can work on his bus. I answer, “Well, remember I’m meeting that guy later today, so I might be getting busy. Can we just do it tomorrow?” He says fine and I head up to the counter. Once there, the guy is smiling at me and being really nice while he rings me up. He shifted to a more effeminate tone while he tried to chat me up. “Alright, that will be five-fifty.”

I look at the glowing numbers, then the guy, and then my items and—yes, side note, one package supposedly glows in the dark. Wait? The condoms alone were over twelve dollars? After batting his eyes, he says, “I’m giving you all the condoms for free.”

“Okay…thanks.”

As I left the store I handed the male prostitute a quarter, so he wouldn’t mess with me while I unlocked my bike, and then pondered why the guy inside… then I remembered what I’d said aloud in the store. “Well, remember I’m meeting that guy later today, so I might be getting busy.” Oh… well, screw it, twelve more bucks in my pocket. There’s another bang-a-bong joke in there somewhere, but I’ll spare you.

I was staying outside the capital of Tunis, in the Muslim country of Tunisia, when two issues concerned me:

I managed to get my step-brother, who worked for the US embassy, alone in his kitchen the day before we were due to start our trek. “If we’re about to head into the largest desert in the world, I would like to get some beer to take with me.”

“I have a few Guinness bottles in my fridge…”

“No, I don’t think that’s got going to cut it. I’d rather not go through DTs in the middle of the Sahara.”

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One awkward expression later, he agreed to take me to the only store in the entire country which sold beer and wine. We arrived at night and this place loomed large. I mean it was big, like twenty super Walmarts on steroids smoking crack, big. It was as if the country had but one giant store which embraced the international capitalistic concept …well, not as if, because that’s exactly what it was.

A certain wonderment fell over me as I gazed down aisles longer than Trump’s bankruptcy trials. I soon found myself lost and figured I’d better find the booze soon or I might need to drink half of my haul just finding my way back out.

I discovered a small section which held only NA beer and right before I started to cry, I spotted a bunch of men armed with mismatched machine guns. Aha! The men with rifles eyed me as I hurried into a small room, which rather harshly contrasted with the rest of the store. Godzilla would have to take several smoke breaks before destroying the entire complex, but the booze section was about the size of my bathroom

My victory smile faded, when I saw silly baby six-packs of Becks, where the cans were smaller than Red Bulls. Ouch, I bought a few anyway. Nothing like a quick shot of beer while exploring the world’s largest desert. After adding a few bottles of wine to my basket, I hurried back to our hotel.

Turns out the place we were staying at had a full bar.

What’s the best type of punk show, besides what the girl with the purple mohawk showed you? It’s the one where the band is playing in someone’s living room. I was at just such a show in 1986 in Tucson and, if I remember correctly, Blood Spasm opened up for the Day Glo Abortions. I’m probably wrong, but it sure sounds great.

I was there with my brand new gilly, a little strawberry blonde, cute as a radioactive sunset, who loved punk rock more than her mom. Mr. Young started leaking enough blood from his mouth to make Gene Simmons jealous and a monster pit had started. Keep in mind, when a pit starts in a living room, it tends to get a tad more serious. I bopped, bounced, and bore into the mass of whirling elbows and spilt beer for a few songs, but then noticed my wee GF was bouncing around more than a bit herself.

I retreated to my gal and stood big and bouncing in front, while keeping the random falling punker from flying into her. Just then the room exploded into a mass of toxic fumes. My gut reaction was, holy fuk, the cops are here and tear gassed the place! The front door lurked behind a mass of confused punkers and most of a band. Besides the cops would be right there. Thinking quickly, I flung a window up, grabbed my gilly, helped her into the side yard, and then dashed through myself.

Turns out it was just some duff firing the fire extinguisher into the room. Still, my little-punker-chick thought it was quite a Stalwart rescue attempt so, yeah, I got some that night.

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So perhaps I should just leave the politics to Zano. I could try to keep up, but why bother? Perhaps Sex, Drugs, and Punk Rock and Roll is a better path? It’s worked OK for me so far. Oh, wait, maybe it ruined everything for me so far. I’m sure it’s one of the two.

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