Last night I go to this dive bar, ostensibly for a karaoke fundraiser. It’s different than I expect — the karaoke is live-band, not the traditional karaoke machine, but that’s okay! I work up the courage to sign up to sing the Sex Pistol’s “Anarchy in the UK” (1976). I’m leaning against the wall nervously; a bit of stage fright working up, and I accidentally knock over… 3 large marble tiles? No idea what it’s doing there, but I suddenly pissed off this very drunk, very dick-headed asshole. He wants to fight over it.
As if I wasn’t already nervous as f- about singing on stage in front of strangers, now one wants to hit me. “Should I throw something at you? You just crushed my leg” (he says while, apparently, not in pain).
I’m sure there’s nothing he’d have enjoyed more than crushing my face, all smiles and wrapped in my floral infinity scarf. I bet he didn’t even care all too much about the tiles. He was just a sad, sad man looking for a fight.
I think my anger at this man is what fueled my performance. I can’t speak to what it was like to listen to is, but gosh did I feel great belting those words out as loud as possible.
“I AM AN ANTI-CHRIST. I AM AN ANARCHIST.” Again, I might have sang terribly. But that was so therapeutic.