Horse Blog

No, the real shit I was referring to above has nothing to do with my choice of girlfriend, and everything to do with the few other guys and girls I encountered that year who listened to the same music, and found themselves somewhat ostracized and un-popular because of it. Some of them caved, I saw - they started wearing cowboy boots, or Black Sabbath T-shirts, and gravitating towards either the shitkicker or freak cliques, becoming a sort of sad shadow group of Johhny-come-latelies to these crews. Those of us who either didn’t care about belonging or actively didn’t want to belong kept to our wild music and our wild wardrobes, and knitted even more tightly together as a result of it. Somehow, the wild music people usually ended up with the best herbiage, a sampling of pills stolen from each other’s parents, and every now and then, some blotter. Oh, and beer. Good God, the beer. Someone always had a brother or sister who was of age, and someone was always able to come up with either enough money or enough whining to convince said older sibling to provide the beer. Coors, for the most part - this was Texas, 1981.