When I was in high school one of my best friends was a year older than me. And, conveniently, my parents were out of town during the festivities. So seriously, where are you gonna throw the party? I will give you one guess.
Anyway, I feel safe in admitting now, partly because I am over thirty, but predominantly because my Dad isn’t on Facebook and my Mom has a really great sense of humor, that we threw a fucking rager. A rager to challenge anything ever before… or since referred to as a such. And the amazing thing? We pulled it off without a hitch. Well…almost.
About two weeks afterwards my Mom found one solitary unopened beer in the front hall closet. I thought I was gonna die keeping my cool. I’m sure she had an idea where such an item might have originated, but what could she say? Everything else was exactly how it should be. Well…almost.
While they were out of town my friend and had I locked ourselves out of the house. And in an innocent effort to gain access to the garage, inside of which the interior door was most likely unlocked, we sort of accidentally kicked in the side door. But I truly mean accidentally. I mean who would really think that a steel door would cave under the weight of two girls, not on any sports teams of any kind, half assedly kicking at it? Not the two of us I’ll tell you what. But none the less it did. And I wholeheartedly planned to tell them about it. Just, you know, later. Honestly, getting away with the party kind of made me forget.
That is until my kid brother discovered his remote control car had gone missing. And his skateboard. Along with a host of other things that all seemed to belong to him and his lawn mowing money. All of which, amazingly for his age, he took in stride. That is until the ultimate end-all-be-all insult. His most prized possession, a tiny little preteen sized snowboard, was gone. And I’m not going to embarrass anyone else here, but it fucking killed me to see him so upset.
At first I just felt guilty because that’s how I was raised. I assumed, illogically mind you, the fact the garage door no longer locked had somehow sent a mass message to the deviants of the western suburbs. I was seventeen man. I thought all kinds of dumb shit. Our particular suburb, where people rarely locked their car doors, must be home to some kind of seedy underbelly I rationalized. And because of me they had gained the upper hand.
It wasn’t until later that summer when my friend was in a car full of dudes that the truth came out. On the way to pick me up for a show one of them asked which Sarah I was. A common occurrence with your bible names. But in the car that night, one of them made the faux pas of referring to me as “Snowboard Sarah”.
Big mistake dumbass.
My friend didn’t tell me about this until later. She had a guess, but wasn’t sure until she performed a little more detective work, if she what she had heard really meant what she thought she did. Which probably was the right thing to do. When it comes to the case of younger siblings, it’s a given that the bigger one has the ultimate free reign to torture, balanced of course by unparalleled responsibility. Because, as every big sibling knows, you are born sworn to destroy anyone who messes with your youngins, forever, no matter what.
And, I digress, if not exactly progress. These dudes were only sort of friends. People you don’t really hang with, but people you might see at a party, for an obvious example. After high school they went many ways, but you could and as I am likely to tonight, five gillion years later, be almost guaranteed to bump into at least one of them at a show.
But it wouldn’t be the first time. In fact, the last time I saw Superchunk at the Metro such an event took place. This was maybe 2000, 2001? A good three or four years later. I was in college then, hanging out with my girl Heather, who I also went to high school with and is a born firestarter if there ever was one. And this is pre-sleeves mind you. There we were, just hanging out, when a friend introduced us to some guys. Some of whom I’d met before. But this was my house now. And this was my fucking band. And well, Heather and I had already had a shot or two. It might be the city of Chicago but it was also college dude.
So let me just say that a real scene transpired. By the end of which, the staff had intervened and random bystanders where shooting dirty looks at the gentlemen involved if not making audible clucking sounds and/or comments about just what kind of assholes these dudes must be. I won’t lie, it got a touch out of hand, but it really was fucking great. Immediately following said scene, Heather and I used the rest of our energy jumping around to our very favorite sounds.
These days Heather is a responsible owner of a very well respected hair salon. Tattoos et all. And my kid brother, after moving to Vermont to work for Burton Snowboards, now owns a bar by Stowe mountain. And I do all kinds of shit. Including, seeing one of my very favorite bands play tonight. No matter who I might bump into. Song 28.