The show was nothing special, and I spent a good deal of time hanging on Kirsty. During intermission, one of my favorite Bad Brains songs came on the PA, and I started dancing around the empty floor by myself, happy from showing off my girlfriend to the folks I most wanted to be in with. Icarus in steel toed boots.

The next thing I know, one of the Telegraph gang, Carol, is accusing me of hitting her while I danced around. I don't remember doing so, but it may very well have happened in my slam-dancing abandon. In any case, it's not something you don't expect at a punk show. Carol and her friends yelled at us and forced us to the door. Eugene, the bouncer, said to me as we're pressed up near him, "You'd better leave." Kirsty and I stepped outside and started walking towards my car.

Halfway across the parking lot I turned around and saw a guy heading towards us. He was what could only be described as a "henchman": a big beefy friend of Carol's that looked like he just loved to fight. Kirsty took off running, and I backed away. The guy caught up with me as I went over a low wall into a driveway and grabbed me by the shirt. He took a swing at me, nailing me solidly on the cheekbone. We swung around each other a few times and I slammed him into a wall. My beloved t-shirt ripped, his grip loosened, and I took off running for the car.

I caught up with Kirsty and we got to the car scared to death that they were after us. I fumbled with the keys, scrambled in to my nice, suburban Volvo, and took off.

Kirsty was apalled at the so-called "scene", and I never went to a punk show again. It just didn't feel like home anymore. I mended the Cyro's shirt with safety pins, though, and wore it for a few more years.