TEENAGE KICKS

I’m in a small crowded café in Senigallia where I will be performing in a few hours. It’s noisy, so I put Can’s “Tago Mago” on the headphones and let the sounds guide my fingers as I drum out this entry. I’ve had several cappuccinos and I am slumped in my chair with my pea coat buttoned to the top and my toaster-cozy hat pulled down over my eyes. The room is filled with young attractive Italians in their 20’s. I am watching a table full of girls with dark almond eyes and huge smiles. The one sitting directly across from me reminds me of my teenage Long Island sweetheart, Michele. It was 1986 and I was sixteen when I met her. She was fifteen, petite with big brown eyes, black clothes, black toenail polish, teased hair and a smile that set my burgeoning high school hormones into a rage. She was a sweet virginal vision and I was deeply smitten. I had met her on a camping trip in Maine one summer. We kept in contact over the next few months while my home life descended into pure chaos. Round about February, my parents tired of my constant whining and explosive temper tantrums and threw me out of the house. I quickly grew bored with surfing couches in the greater Attleboro area and decided that I needed to use this opportunity for a little adventure. I dropped out of school, pan-handled 50 dollars outside of the Cumberland Farms in downtown Mansfield, plunked down 30 dollars in loose change for a bus ticket and was off. A few hours later I was standing in a frantic mob of commuters in Penn Station with 12 dollars in change, my skateboard, my studded leather jacket, my dyed-black spider-plant hair and a ridiculously over-packed duffle bag. I spotted Scott Ian from Anthrax. New York City...holy fucking shit. I stumbled around feeling overwhelmed for a while and eventually found the train to Syosset. Michele and her parents, who were less than thrilled about my sudden arrival into their teenaged daughter’s life, greeted me at the station.
Michele’s dad immediately informed me that I was welcome to visit Michele in their home, but I would have to sleep elsewhere. I ended up the being the scourge of many a concerned Long Island parent for a few weeks. I was relegated to clandestine late-night meetings where I would be secreted away to sleep under beds, in unused spare rooms and even a shed or two. I spent a few entertaining nights with her friends, smoking weed, popping pills, going to hardcore shows and sleeping in cars. The fun only lasted a week and a half and then I was packed off to a runaway shelter by the Syosset police after I got busted trying to sneak into the house one of Michele’s friend’s parents. Syosset’s finest seemed to find my plight amusing as they sat in the station devouring hamburgers, grease dripping down their double chins.
The people at the shelter informed me that I would become a bum if I kept this lifestyle up and that I would be beaten and set on fire by gangs of roving juvenile delinquents. They confiscated the giant hunting knife I had brought with me for “protection” and gave me a bed. Over the next few days, I wandered around looking for a job and tried to find enough change on the sidewalk for a cup of coffee. I ended up being interviewed on the local news about the joys and perils of itinerant teenage-hood with three of my friends from the shelter. The first week went by without a hitch, but then I got my ass booted out for non-compliance. My afternoon makeout sessions with Michele had made me miss curfew three times and they had a three strikes rule. I was sent to a counselor and managed to wrangle a bus ticket home and returned to Mansfield with my tail between my legs. It was my first travel experience on my own, and it proved my lack of survival skills outright. 22 years later, I am slightly more equipped to handle things, but what I lost in teenage melodrama, I have gained in middle-aged ennui, so it’s still a struggle. I recently did a little research and got back in touch with Michele. She is doing well and she‘s still quite fetching.
The gig in Verona was very strange. We stayed with the promoters, a very sweet and accommodating couple in their beautiful apartment which overlooked the river. We had a quick dinner and walked down to the venue. It was called Circolo. It consisted of four rooms, a bar, a game room, a room called “the black box” which served as an art gallery and a middle room where we played. I found a wifi connection and was attempting to write, but this strange dude with an awkward half smile and thick glasses kept hovering around me and trying to look at the screen of my laptop. I had no idea what he wanted, but I could immediately sense that he was someone that I was not in the mood to deal with. I tried to ignore him but he continued to buzz around me like a mosquito. I could tell he wanted something, and I also could tell that it was probably something completely inappropriate to ask from a complete stranger. He finally walked up and shoved an
I-Pod in my face.

“Don’t you have the cord to plug this in?” he asked in a tone that suggested that I had already offered it to him.

“To where?” I said, trying to be patient.

“To your computer?”

(…who the fuck are you and why are you talking to me…)

“No, I don‘t have the cord. I don‘t have an I-Pod.”

(…who the fuck raised you, man? You haven’t even introduced yourself…)

“…but the battery is dead. I want to listen to it on the way home.”

(…I am not even slightly concerned with how entertaining your bike ride home is, you fucking presumptuous asshole. Now leave me alone…)

“Sorry, man, I can’t help you.”

(…go away before I throttle you with my bare hands…)

What the fuck? Even if I did have the cord, I wouldn’t have done it. I didn’t dig his tone and I certainly didn’t want to give him an excuse to hang around. He went away and I avoided eye contact with him for the rest of the night.
Under normal circumstances, this exchange wouldn't have upset me, but there was something about this guy that burned my ass. I had handled myself with politeness and grace, but my patience for this sort of shit was wearing thin and my hostility was becoming palpable. Personal space is a hot commodity for a touring musician and I am beginning to starve for want of it. The place had a strange vibe all night and many of the conversations I had been forced into verged on the surreal.

The adjoining rooms were loud with chatter and the PA had one blown speaker, so we were competing with heavy clamor. The shows in Italy have paid pretty well and the hospitality of our gracious hosts has been top notch, but the actually performances have been frustrating, With the exception of Milano, which was a great show, the audiences have been loud and indifferent. It’s been forcing me to push myself a little more, which I need to do, but it‘s still hard. About 10 people watched my set. My voice was blown by the end. Micah fared about as well. It was not a stellar performance for either of us, but we still sold some merch.
The next day, our hosts brought us on a short tour of the city before we caught our train. We encountered a Roman Coliseum and I wondered how many unlucky traveling musicians were torn apart by lions and hippos there while the bloodthirsty populace shouted and jeered. Some things never change.
We got on the train and we ran into Andre, formerly of the band Herman Dune, and his girlfriend, Clementine. They were touring on a similar circuit. We sat with them and discussed the difficulty of dealing with loud audiences. They had not been faring much better in the past few shows. They got off in Cesena. We got off in Senigallia.