The world’s a mess, it’s in my kiss
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Another little piece of my past resurfaced, in that sad, “I am really getting old” way… The Mabuhay (or the “Fab Mab” as we called it, or “the Fucking Madhouse”) was my home away from home as a teenager. The San Francisco nightclub that I ALWAYS was trying to get to, breaking curfew and lying to my parents on a regular basis, speeding up from Santa Cruz high as a tiny paper kite to see the Dead Kennedys, Flipper, X. I was too young for the Mab in it’s prime, but I had my good times. My boyfriend played guitar for Camper Van Beethoven, so I got in underage. When I didn’t, I stood outside and drank, starting my fine tradition of throwing up on famous people’s shoes with a Ramone (I was too drunk to know which one). Once, when the cops were trying to close a show early, Jello Biafra grabbed me by the shoulder and said “You aren’t going anywhere, right?”
I remember Dirk Dirksen, in the hazy way I remember everything about my teens. I remember one of his insane birthday parties, and his tiny dog. I remember that all my big punk rock friends (a decade older than me for the most part) were always attentive and almost awed when he’d come around. I remember that when I got my nose broken in a fight, he gave me a ice pack and patted my knee. He always seemed to be laughing at me, at all of us. Then again, we were pretty ridiculous. Thanks for letting us throw the party at your house, Dirk. Sorry that we trashed the place. G’night. |
