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Punk Hospital Fall
The Telegraph gang found me a ride back to Berkeley, and I spent the rest of the show against the wall. I have no memory of the ride across the bridge, but I do remember directing them to my house way up in the hills. With each turn up the windy roads, I became more and more aware of my privileged upbringing and how it must look to some of these street punks. At one point, one of them exclaimed, "Where the hell do you live?"

Coupled with my white, middle-class guilt was the guilt from making them drive me all the way home. To assuage both, I had them drop me a few block from my house and walked the rest of the way. It was cold and foggy and very refreshing, but I was dead tired, dizzy, and my shoulder hurt.

I let myself into the house and got right into bed. When morning came, I'd hardly slept and my shoulder still ached. I got out of bed and said to my mom, "I think I hurt my shoulder." I told her about the failed stage-dive, and she drove me to the hospital.

Chez Zeus: Speak, Minotaur!: Station No. 49

Last modified: Thu Mar 31 16:14:13 2005
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