"where are all the punks at?"

The last hour and a half of the show was filled with two sets of poetry and an hour long onslaught of the heart sung by Madeline. Punks were getting drunk all night, they needed to let loose. One punk in particular walked into the kitchen where I, along with a handful of friends, was sitting. He asked for a glass for his Miller High Life and leaves the room. He returns minutes later and places it into the sink with several other dirty glassware, this time he sticks around, almost wishing to be invited to say the thing that was being pent up in his head all night. Noticing this, I indulge in some fun with a stranger, almost my way of saying hi. "You thinking about washing that glass?" I imagine the hair on the back of his neck standing tall. Fumbling around something to say, "Uh, I bet you live here or something?" he says with some sort of premeditated attitude. "Well, no one else is doing it?" I pick up on his poise and add "Well, you know, a bunch of wrongs do make a right, so..." He takes a look at me through his beer soaked eyes and walks up my seat. I expected no less than a punch in the jaw. He extends his hand as if he wants me to shake it. "I'm Alex," he so boldly states. "Oh hey man, my name is Ryan." It took me a moment to figure out he was probably getting my name so he could go on the porch and talk shit about me. I mean, he knows I live here. The meet and greet is soon brought to a halt when he struts out of the kitchen asking "Where are all the punks at?" It is then revealed to everyone that the well-mannered young man was sporting a finely stitched Circles Jerk back patch, whatever that means.