baggage's Diaryland Diary

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The Skeletones in Jimmy's closet

The Skeletones should have been huge. They were the biggest ska band in the area before Gwen Stefani led No Doubt out of Orange County and into pop culture history. The Skeletones should have been famous. But, here they were, on the night of my birthday, playing in my hometown with two other "would have beens-could have beens:" Fishbone and Voodoo Glow Skulls. All three bands excel. Despite the nagging thought that perhaps fame had eluded them, they sounded fresh and vibrant. These were musicians who loved what they were playing-fame be damned. And I loved them for it.
My neighbor Jimmy had purchased tickets for Girl-Unit and I as a birthday present. And, although Girl-Unit was in no way looking forward to the show, I could tell that she was somewhat entertained by the crowd that lingered about: punk rock kids, scantily clad tattooed teen girls and shaved head, goatee-wearing young men who spent their evenings driving around in raised four-wheel drives sporting "Glamis" stickers on the bumper. It was an interesting place to people watch. I watched the punk rock kids who feared getting their ass-kicked by the goatee-wearing young men who, I theorized, were more likely interested in the scantily clad tattooed teenage girls. The girls must have sensed the stares because they seemed like wolves- wandering everywhere in self-contained giggling packs of five or more for protection-baring their new-found sexuality like a medal and smelling of too-sweet-teen-perfume. The goatee-wearing men wouldn't have a chance against such unity.
The event was not unlike a mini sociology experiment. A metaphorical food chain. A pecking order was apparent and Girl-Unit and I wondered where in the chain we belonged.
Jimmy was too busy having fun to wonder about his role in my imagined social food chain. The large number of folks who approached him with an outstretched hand and friendly smile was impressive. Eternally easy to be around and perpetually high, he played the role of cool kid perfectly. A stranger wouldn't have a clue as to the massive amounts of baggage that weighs down his day to day.
He lived next door and, although a drummer, our friendship wasn't immediate. A few years after moving in, and around the same time my Mom was dying of cancer, his wife left him and took their daughter. Our black clouds crossed and we became friends over bad times. The many weeks I took off from work before and after my mom's death were spent, in large part, with him and we got to know each other fairly well during what arguably were the shittiest months of my life.
And I worry about him. He still hasn't quite climbed out of the hole dug by his divorce. And, I'm not convinced he's trying.
Jimmy was closer to the stage than Girl-Unit and I. He was at the edge of a mosh pit -- aware of, but not participating in the odd ritual of young men using music to either exorcize their violent tendencies or fulfill a secret need to share sweat and skin. His stare switched focus between the band and the pit-his mouth sporting a huge smile that seemingly occupied the entire bottom half of his face. Despite his troubles, he was squarely in the moment. I was happy for him. And jealous too. The moment often escapes me.

9:02 p.m. - 2005-06-25

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