Rockabilly, Street Punk, Bullshit

The Family Name Draw. Christmas. Irwin, Pennsylvania.

Thirteen years old. I almost always asked for compact discs. That year was no different.

I present a list. Things I want. It makes it easier on my cousins. Aunts. Uncles.

My requests aren't always sold at the chains. It was less of a problem in the past. The majority of my "punk" requests. Readily available. Today. My tastes have become a bit more difficult.

At thirteen. I wanted Social Distortion. They were all over Thrasher. Month after month. Year after year. I had never heard them. So I asked for a compact disc for Christmas.

I believe Mary had my name. She delivered.

I kept the album for a few years. Never getting into it. I dismissed it as rockabilly.

Going forward. I took a decidedly anti-rockabilly position in my listening.

Complaining about the music. The culture. The image. To anyone who would listen.

Greasers. Hot rods. No thanks. The appeal was not there for me.

Thirty years old. Thirty-one years old.

Guitar Hero III.

Story of My Life. Became one of my favorite songs in the game.

I would find myself humming it. Singing it.

Selling out my position. Realizing I wanted to buy that album. Again.

So I did.

Social Distortion. AKA Music. Bargain bin.