Love
by Matt Worley

Six years ago I was in an emotional tailspin. I was told, "Maybe you should try hating me for a while" by the girl I loved. Almost accidentally, I ended up at a birthday party for someone I didn't know armed with a case of Miller Genuine Draft in cans. I was 19, so you'll have to forgive my bad taste in beer. It wasn't an ordinary party by any means. There was only one room to party in, and it was devoid of furniture. The main attraction (other than the half-naked, dancing birthday girl) was a strange little consortium of musicians playing in the "kitchen alcove."

Scumbaag was the name of the band, and this was their first time playing under that name. All of the members of the band had been (or still were) in various other musical incarnations, and they were all music students or teachers. Songs about fecal residue on underwear (the now-infamous "brown stripe") and world music for the speed metal set. By the time they played, I was well into the case of beer. By the time they finished, I was searching the dark regions of an anonymous party girl's mouth with my tongue.

Later in the evening, I approached the guitarist/singer/songwriter John Bartlett (he goes under another name when playing with Scumbaag, but I can never remember those five word fake names) and congratulated him on his performance. I was leaning on my friend Dave's shoulder (the case of beer was gone!), and trying to act like an adult of some kind. And then I burst out with one of the stupidest statement/questions I've ever blathered in my life:

"So, did you get laid?" I asked.

"No," John said, obviously amused by my question.

"No? I got laid and I'm not even in the band!"

I have no idea if he responded to this or if I merely wandered away, not comprehending why a member of the featured band at a birthday party couldn't get laid, when I, in my supremely inebriated state, did. At 19 years old, this was like trying to figure out the eternal question of life. I eventually left the questioning in my mind for other days and left the party with the on again/off again girlfriend of the drummer. Of course, I didn't find out that fact until well after the night was over and done.

A few years later, during my "I don't like to drink beer" stage (this was the first year I was of legal drinking age), I proceeded to get rotten drunk by way of cheap, nasty wine coolers (the kind I bought was only on the market for a few months, I think). Our group of drunken revelers (about six of us) found its way to the dollar movie theater and into a horrible film called "Hexed." Halfway through, I stumbled out of the dark theater, into the bathroom and proceeded to let a heroic load of diarrhea go while the Star Wars soundtrack played softly over the speakers in the theater restroom.

That night, I ended up with a girl (we'll call her Mandy) two of my friends were vying over (the three took German together, and they were supposed to be studying for a test before we all got wasted). While I really liked Mandy, it was made clear to me by the aforementioned Dave that I had to let her go because "women shouldn't come between friends." Since I'd had enough of that kind of problem during my "nearly-21" years, I agreed. The Mandy eventually deflowered a friend, broke his heart and got married to some lucky guy.

Saturday night, Scumbaag played at the Fat Chance. Most of the members of the band don't even live in Albuquerque anymore (a couple are in Arizona, and one owns a KOA in Wisconsin), but they play one to two shows a year in the Big Q because they have a large guaranteed audience of friends and freaks who show up every time they play (myself included). The last time I saw them was on my 25th birthday earlier this year. The band played much better in February than last night (apparently they all flew in Saturday morning and practiced for three hours before the gig), but the turnout was a fantastically friendly affair.

Mandy, among others, showed up at the gig sans husband (I've still never even seen the guy). She's still married, has two kids and looks almost the same as she did four and a half years ago. Our table went through at least six pitchers of Guinness, Scumbaag played four sets, and everyone was hugging and falling all over themselves at the end of the night while the owners of the bar yelled, "I'm serious, if you're not in the band you've got to leave NOW!"

Most of us stumbled to the Frontier for early morning food and people watching. Mandy disappeared with yet another friend of mine, and I was left to ponder the meaning of love. I've only professed to be in love a couple of times, but when a scene like last night happens, re-evaluation is in order. Maybe love is an extreme fascination with familiarity that transcends time and space, occasionally manifesting itself physically, but truly only an emotional response to repeated stimuli. And maybe it's one of those words that means too much to try to explain. But I do know that last night I was in love with my world, imperfections included.

Matt Worley turned nostalgic just as the weather turned cold. Perfect timing.

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