Chronically Ironic

·I Ran Away From Skinheads, Successfully, in 1987

I wanted to be punk in high school. I was not quite a miserable failure, but close. I liked the music, but you know how punk girls are usually tiny, cute and sparky with their multi-colored hair, ripped fishnets, short skirts, and Docs? Yeah, try being 5’10” and pulling off that look. I have met zero tall punk girls in my lifetime. So needless to say, I was pretty much a part-time punk dork. The look did not work. But I made up for it in knowledge. Looking back, I think I was supposed to make up for it in rebellion. Woops.

I did love the music, and if I couldn’t be authentic in look, I would at least be authentic in spirit. Circle Jerks were punk gods, along with Black Fucking Flag and Sex Pistols (yeah yeah, even though it was crap, you can’t beat the first verse of Anarchy in the UK. Anti-Christ…anarchist…passers-by…a teenager’s fucking dream.) So, someone out there besides me may remember what was practically the only club in Deep Ellum, Dallas in 1987…Theatre Gallery. Sadly, I hardly run into anyone now that remembers it, which stresses the fact that I am getting really fucking old. We – my two friends Leigh and Veronica – had tickets to a Circle Jerks show.

Now would be an opportune time for me to describe these high school mates of mine. Being a part-time punk and full-time dork, a nice way to put it would be that I was selective about my friends. A realistic way to put it is, I didn’t fucking have any friends. Except for these two, and we were inseparable. Leigh had money and lots of it. Veronica and I were just middle-class, so it was fun to hang out with someone that could buy things, but that was not Leigh’s only redeeming quality - in fact, far from it. She was extraordinarily intelligent, well-read, funny, and had a beautiful singing voice. She was not really all-out punk either, but at least not as odd-looking at it as I was. Her always-awesome weirdly fresh-cut dark blond hair and her sometimes glasses had a “do not fucking approach me” quality, one that many men completely dug. Veronica was almost full-time, all-out punk, and was short with dark hair, giant breasts, and incisors that were practically fangs. Talk about jealous. I wanted to be her like nobody’s business. Also smart, the two of us together were like the Mutt & Jeff of intelligent weirdoes. She drove a giant white Chevy pick-up, which totally did not fit, but I spent many a night and day riding around in that truck and feeling completely free. And the boys…oh LAWD. You couldn’t keep track of them. Not to say she was a slut…she wasn’t. She dated one guy throughout most of high school. That never stopped guys from coming on to her non-stop, and she was the consummate flirt. I might have learned most of what I know now about flirting from Veronica. Holy shit, she was bad. A tease. She had a shitload of fun, and while I felt bad for the guys, I admired her.

These two, my awkward-ass self, and Veronica’s long-time boyfriend Henry (a skinny, gangly dude that possibly dropped out of high school to be a mechanic – not that there’s anything wrong with that) are going to this Circle Jerks show in Deep Ellum. Leigh is driving the super-cool Brougham. We are all piled in, ready to be punk as fuck. Little did we know when we left the suburbs exactly what kind of drama awaited for us in Big D that night.

We park the car in a vacant lot (back then, you didn’t have to pay some guy with a red flag and an accent $7 to park your car) and walked the few short blocks to get in line. As we are stepping into line, one of the guys already in the line comes over to Veronica, obviously acquainted with her sultry ways of seduction and abandonment. The young man is, apparently, a skinhead, and has about 5 friends with him in line. None of these gentlemen are what I would consider “small” or “peaceful-looking.” The conversation heats up between Veronica and this guy, and Henry is getting more and more agitated, but you can tell he’s afraid to really let loose on the skinhead. He finally does muster up the courage to say, “Hey, leave my girlfriend alone,” and with that, all of a sudden, Veronica is in the middle of the street standing between Scrawny Henry and Five Angry Skinheads. Veronica, in a completely non-convincing and superlatively girly tone, squeals, “LEAVE HIM ALONE!!!” I think Henry gets popped a couple of times in the face from Skinhead #1. Henry is retreating. This is all happening much faster than it seems, and whilst our friends are in the middle of the street fighting it out, Leigh and I are watching, horrified. We realize we must retrieve the vehicle and get the fuck away from this situation right now. For some reason, Veronica has the keys. And she is in the middle of the goddamn street. Shit. Veronica realizes what is up and, more forcefully now, screams, “GO GET THE CAR!!!” She tosses the keys to me, and in a miraculous feat of what can be described as nothing short of true football-player heroism and glory, I make the catch. The keys come whirling at me in slow-motion, and, like T.O. once might have done, I almost celebrate in a horribly unacceptable way. No time for that shit. We RUN. Okay, I don’t run as a rule. So this is, I am sure, a comical appearance for the several hundred people lined up outside the venue. Two white girls running down the street like they are running away from fire or a monster or Tom Cruise. We get in the Classic Brougham and speed to the aid of Veronica and Henry, still trading insults with the skinheads. Henry, not so much - as he might possibly be near passed out at this point. We arrive in the middle of said street; Veronica grabs Henry in a demonstration of short-girl-over-lanky-tall-guy power and throws him into the backseat, while she jumps in after. We speed away into the city night, panting and wondering if it could be possible that they are following us. The answer is no, and we pull in to the infamous McDonald’s that is smack-dab in the middle of downtown Dallas.

We go inside, encourage our shaking hands to enjoy a fry or two, and realize we may not be cut out for the city just yet. Or for punk. We retreat to the suburbs, drink in the park, and get busted by the cops. Now that, my friends, is irony.

Glories of the 80's, Musical Hootenanny