Outsider Part 1: Acknowledgement

Saturday January 8 2005

Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 2369 Mcallen

It was about 10 pm when me and my brother got there. On the way, I started to ask him questions about what is was like. What were the bands like? More importantly, what were the people at these things like? Was there beer? He kinda smiled. The all knowing smirk erupted the left side of his face.

"Yeah there's beer. It's a fucking bar." How the hell do I know? I've never been to one of these things. Wait. That's a lie. I meant I have never been to a VFW post before. This is not really that important. The important thing is about the people. I need to find out what these people are like. They say more important things about a culture. Their actions do not lie. More questions. So what are the people like?

Another smirk. "You'll see dude." I guess I would. I did get a little more information out of him concerning the music. "It's emo, dude. If it sucks, you can make fun of the emo kids crying." Great.

There were clusters of people, about 20-25, outside the post. They were huddled around each other smoking cigarettes and just apparently shooting the shit. I noticed the music reverbing from inside. Not their favorite band? Well, the air was nice outside. Fuck it. I'll press on.

Through the narrow hallway, I got bewildered looks. You could see the question marks on their heads. I met a few of their gazes trying to figure out what was wrong. I recently bleached my hair. It was a botched job from an attempted hair dye fiasco that was merely corrected with a shit load of bleach. A plain black shirt was adorning my body with a black hoodie over it, khaki shorts, and a pair of new Vans (the big thick skater-esqe type) covering my feet. There were all sorts of people wearing what, I guess, can be only described as vintage. People wearing tight worn blue jeans, thick checkered coats, several sporting black shirts with bands I've never heard before. I noticed a few punks in the crowd. The long, high, and proud mohawks and checkered pants were a dead giveaway. I was starting to feel like the conservative one in the crowd.

Like Popeye needs his spinach, I needed my fix. Pitchers were five bucks and it was like a god send. If the night turned abruptly sour, at least I knew there was a contingency plan. Like a hawk, I grabbed the pitcher and poured my brother and myself a cup. I drank about a couple cups as fast as I could then I popped two mini thins. I have noticed when you combine the pills and beer, even if you are drunk, you still maintain a sharp clarity. I would definitely need that soon enough.