On Pergo and Pesto -- Blondie and Bolt Cutters...

And so, it seems, the doors of CBGB’s will be shuttered and padlocked.

But not without a fight…

According to this article, CBGB’s owner will “cut the locks” to keep his rock venue open if he has to -- and I have to admit that I’m finding myself hoping that he does get that damn belligerent about it all. And I’m hoping that Debbie Harry is with him, too…bolt cutters in hand, hair a mess, cigarette dangling outta her mouth.

Just the other night, I was biking home listening to Ms. Harry on my iPod.

I know its probably not the safest or wisest of decisions to bike at night listening to music, but I was feeling all defiant and discordant, listening to Blondie, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Peter Murphy and some Siouxsie Sioux.

True to form, I was being all nostalgic about my youth, thinking about another man who’d recently hurt my heart, thinking about how one moves on from disappointment. I remember thinking about what it would take to free myself from this colossal pile of emotional and financial crap that seems to plague my thoughts so frequently.

I was biking as hard as I could – hoping that the adrenaline rush would make me feel that surge of invulnerability that I remember so well from those teenage days of black eyeliner and a bad attitude.

Affectation or affliction?

I dunno.

I was disappointed a lot less then, or so it seems. In others. And in myself, especially.

The night was beautiful and it was well past 2 AM – which I guess makes it morning – and I was feeling a bit mournful, thinking about a conversation I’d just had at a gal pal’s house warming party. She’s a doll, a dear friend, a drummer and a development director.

My, how we’ve all grown up...

I was half-humming a Blondie song, half-hoping that I could shake the malingering memory of this fellow house warming fella I’d chatted with earlier that night.

It had started out great, you should know -- we were talking about a recent indie rock show – and somehow the conversation nose-dived into a discussion about various home improvement projects and varnishing Quarter Round.

I rounded a corner as my mind floated from topics like:

iPods, iTunes and illegal downloads…

Late nights and laminates…

Flooring financing or financial freedom…

And all I could think is that I’ve become such a sell-out…such a poser…

I was trying to reconcile how leading a pseudo-upscale, pesto-preparing, tapenade-tasting, Martha Stewart Living lifestyle could jive with my indie-music, punk rock, alterna-girl, goth-fag roots.

By this point, I was about two blocks from home, still mulling over how I managed to easily jump from punk rock to Pergo, all the while sipping mango juice and Pellegrino, when I saw a kid jumping a fence.

He’s this 16 or 17 year old kid who lives down the street – and a block over.

He’s a cute kid with a super fit-mom and a kinda-hot dad who just moved into a house that had recently been rehabbed.

Now, I dunno what to think about all these formerly-suburban people that are moving into my neighborhood with alarming frequency. The streets are better lit, for sure…but is this progress?

Or is this just gentrification?

Is my neighborhood really getting any safer?

Or is my rent just gonna go up because some white people moved into a rehabbed house where a black family used to live?

But that’s another topic for another day…

This kid was climbing over the new privacy fence that borders their yard and I found myself hoping like hell that this kid was sneaking into his house – that he’d been at a rock show – that he was out way past curfew – that he was drunk or stoned – that he’d just gotten laid – or maybe a combination of all of the above.

He shot me the stink-eyed look that I know far-too-well from my own teenage years. I just smiled and waved, which resulted in a huge shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

I’m no Gladys Kravitz, doll...just a good ole Uncle Arthur...biking his faggot-ass home listening to some strung out white chick with fucked up bangs carrying on about this-that-and the other…

He flipped up his thumb, signaling it was all good and then bounced down into his backyard, out of sight…

I hoped he had to sneak in through a window or through a door he’d left unlocked. And I remember hoping he wouldn’t get caught – so he could and would do it again! Rock on, you bad-ass kid...

I wondered, as I turned the corner on my block, if the Pergo floor in his newly-rehabbed house would squeak as he tried to sneak into his room?

And suddenly, I didn’t mind being the kinda guy who could chat about Pergo, Pellegrino and punk rock, even though I Smelt Like Teen Spirit the year that child was born. Refreshed by the teen spirit I saw acting up a few blocks away, I made my way up my stairs, carrying my bike and simply went to bed. In my decrepitude, I’ve given up on getting drunk and getting laid at a party...

That kid reminded me then and now that the spirit of CBGB’s lives on:

-- in every every back-sassing girl who still plays drums in a garage bad (even though she manages a spreadsheet by day)

-- in every overly-agonizing middle-aged fading hipster (with a blog, a bad attitude and an even worse credit rating)

-- in every bad-ass teenager (that could potentially sneak out of his parent’s Crate + Barrel-rehabbed dream home).

It lives on in every act of defiance and every dream of doing your own thing.

And dreaming -- unlike pesto, Pergo or the cover charge at CBGB's -- dreaming is free. And so is this download of Blondie's song by the same name.

Enjoy and rock on, dudes and dudettes!