For lack of a cord

I was running with a pack of shirtless skinheads, punks from a band I used to play with in the 80s. Rick Johnson was the leader. At this point they were more like a nomadic group of feral thugs, and musical instruments were still something on the distant horizon of their evolution. I thought to change that by bringing a guitar into the mix.

"I don't see as it could hurt," Rick agreed. "We need more noise. Screaming is only getting us so far. Let's say you bring one of these guitars to our next session."

"I'll do it," I said, and I set about to secure the proper equipment.

The group was sharing space with some other bands, people who played actual music, and I figured I'd just borrow some of their stuff. I had my own guitar and cord, and someone had an old Marshall combo that was in pretty rough shape which they said we could use. I'd brought my guitar, but I failed to bring my patch cord, having left it in my car, parked some blocks away.

The amp had its own very short patch cord, however, and it was hardwired to the amp. I could either use it and stand two feet from the amp, or I could go and retrieve mine from my car. I wanted to be less restricted, so I opted to get my own cord. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember where my car was parked, and after wandering around for what seemed like hours, I had to return to the practice empty handed, and some other guys were playing at that point. 

In my desperation to be part of the band, I wound up buying a drum kit from some speed metal guys who were hanging out on the periphery. It was a pretty decent rig, with the exception of one of the tom-toms. The drum head was blown out, and the rim had been fashioned out of a bicycle chain. After attempting a few solos, I knew I'd have to replace the head in order to get the gig. 

I pulled out the ruptured paper machete drum head material and began stretching a new skin out of a Mexican poncho that I'd been wearing. It didn't have quite the resonant properties of the paper machete, but it would do the job. By the time I managed to get it together, however, the band had lost their spot, and another band was set to play for the night.

(Mike)

"And introducing, on drums, our own Michael Cardenas," an announcer proudly proclaimed.

 I looked at his drumset, and it was familiar. "Isn't that?--" I started to ask.

"Mark III," the announcer finished. "...and they are GOOOD."

Damn Mark III, I cursed to myself. Of course they were good. Everybody liked them. Damned likable kids, full of that kid energy. They weren't second or even third generation punk, they were something different entirely, some kind of boy band pop with their roots in dad's retro rock, playing a mix of original songs and covers of 80's, 90s and 00's hits with a tight, fresh enthusiasm. 

Damn them, anyway.

I went to the music store to try to buy a real drum head, and while I was at the counter, someone made note of the fact that I wasn't wearing any pants. I looked down, and sure enough, I just had on some tighty-whiteys with the remnants of the cloth I'd used for the drum head hanging from the elastic like a tail.

"Never you mind that," I told the man at the counter. "I've got someplace to be, so just the drum head, if you please."

That's about all I can remember. I woke up with a case of pinkeye, or dry eye with extreme prejudice, for the second time in two days. It's the same eye as the flint projectile injury from Sunday, but it doesn't necessarily feel related. I get eye injuries frequently while sleeping, and this feels more like one of those.