Three years ago today I met a mustached man sitting on the porch of east wing of Hotel Frank. He was dressed in black, smoking, and telling kids how they didn't know shit about punk rock music because they hadn't been around as long as he had.
I wasn't even supposed to be there that night. Some of my girlfriends had gone to a show, leaving me to my own devices. I made a desperate call out of boredom to my friend who said he and some kids were hanging out on a porch.
It was there I walked up, Kessler and diet coke in tow in my canvas tote (I've come to know to travel with this), and there by the dim light (hehe) I listened to this commandingly tall man, arms and legs crossed, rattle off bands and musicians I had never heard of.
I had seen him around town a few times. Each time dressed in black with that curly mustache and greek fisherman hat on his head. He seemed to me like someone you didn't want to mess with. It wasn't until I talked to him that fateful day three years ago that I realized he was just like everybody else, nicer even and with a record collection I knew I wanted to listen to.
As such love stories go, we spent that first night talking to each other for hours. I turned to him at the end of the night, pointing, directing that he better fucking call me tomorrow (what can I say I knew what I wanted?). Luckily, he did.
So here we are. Three years later, so many memories and more to come.