3. social distortion, chapter one continued from johnny thunders

July 16^th, birthday of Stewart Copeland from the Police. It’s characteristically slow early evening. The crowd never converged until eleven p.m. (then at capacity) every night, regardless of special event or holiday. I’ve never understood this synchronous proclivity. Poor Max had, in typical fashion been ambushed by white t-shirt guy. Max and I had dubbed him that because we couldn’t remember his name. Primarily though, because of his anomalous partiality to wearing clean, immaculately pressed, plain white crew neck t-shirts exclusively. Never colour, button down, long sleeve, pullover, hoody or even a fucking white v-neck t-shirt since we’ve had the misfortune of knowing him. Another incongruity I recently noticed is that he seemingly never blinks. He has this grotesquely incessant stare.

“I just wanted to come over and know how it felt to be in the presence of a Punk rock God.”

Max had tucked his head into his chest to constrict or conceal his laughter. White t-shirt guy’s sycophancy amused Max. It had nothing to do with the authenticity or contradiction of his statement. Its intent and sincerity in question was funny and sometimes you simply forget that a weird guy will say weird things. A little about Max, he’s the rudder of Stereofish, others would call him the manager. There wouldn’t be a Stereofish if not for his counsel, principles and intellect. Max has been described aesthetically as a sort of cross between Elvis Presley and Mike Ness from Social Distortion, he consequently despises both comparisons. Like the clientele he is artfully decorated in tattoos (mostly of the skull variety) and yes he did play in a punk rock band that procured modest, very moderate success.