Damn the Floorpedoes

[Boogus Epirus Aurelius]

Saw a dive bar Band tonight!

A high school dropout could write their band history, I think.
They've been coasting the easy-gig circuit for about a year now, thinking back to high school lunches and .3 mile hotbox rides on the way home. Maybe occasionally having the serious high after a breakup or important life defining moment. The type of memory you slam shut in that lockbox beneath your bed. The long hair is getting weirder looks now.

But now they're working crummy part time jobs schlepping packages at four in the morning for the local UPS facility before mopping the late seventies rust-colored tiles down at Molly's for the lunch hour.

You get dreams of being revolutionary, but you're stuck in a phish/dead wonky-jam kind of etiquette, so you're basically just background music to the monday night diners and the regulars at Nill's or, if you're lucky, at the Pocket. I guess they tip better there. The amps are stuck at six and your wah pedal is out of juice these days. If your role model is Trey Anastasio, you might want to make a new checklist.

They realize they don't really enjoy it anymore. It's another part time job now, faces in and out. And the cheap beer plus the hundred dollars doesn't really do much towards knocking down this month's rent. Eventually you'll see that drum set swimming around on Craigslist or worse. Maybe a spent bass at a university garage sale. An Ibanez with an exceptionally scratched pick guard might make its way to a cold Guitar Center Warehouse for even colder pocket change.

Where do these people end up, the strumming dead?

[Socks]

Probably in a shack with some broad, thinking of Trey Anastasio. You know, worrying from purchase to purchase.