Not Alan Keyes
Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
To the heavyset dude who wanted me to join in the slamdancing while El Centro played at the Rhino Room before TSOL came on: if I had wanted to slamdance, I would have joined voluntarily. I like watching bands and don't need people like you—a complete stranger—grabbing me by the lapels and dragging me toward the dance floor. For one thing, I don't like slamming into other guys' bodies and bruising my delicate self! (Girls are a different matter, but they rarely engage in slams.) It took me looking toward the bouncer (the one with handcuffs on his belt) to get you to let me go. I'll say this: you weren't as nuts as the heavily tattooed dude 10 minutes earlier who, when he slamdanced too enthusiastically and was tapped on the shoulder by a bouncer to calm down, started throwing punches, so five bouncers had to descend upon him. And he still kept fighting! I've rarely seen such rage in a human face as I did when they carried him out the door. When I saw those tattoos, it made me believe Truman Capote's statement that, after having interviewed more than 400 multiple murderers, he found the one thing most of them had in common were tattoos.
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