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The brisk, evening air welcomed the crowds into Ann Arbor’s The Blind Pig. On the bill was Detroit’s new garage rock savior’s, The Hard Lessons. Moving through the crowd I am pleasantly surprised to see a few people I hadn’t seen in years-and as the small (is the term “midget” politically correct?) drummer for The Hard Lessons brushed past me, we all marveled at the circus-like atmosphere the show was taking on. My evening began to slow at this point. Many drinks followed and a jovial attitude fell over the fans that filled the small venue, throngs of fans pump their fists and dance along to the rock and roll sounds. And, even though this isn’t really my scene- I am enjoying the performances and all my long-lost friends’ company. It looks like the night would be full of good times- but looks can be deceiving … Excusing myself, I head downstairs to the illustrious “8 Ball” to use the bathroom. Bounding down the dog-leg staircase, through the hallway I am focused on the significant urge to alleviate my bladder’s capacity … So focused in fact I walked right past Rancid’s Tim Armstrong. I will repeat that … I walked right past Rancid’s Tim Armstrong. Rancid had played a sold out show at St. Andrew’s that night with MI rock-a-billy badasses “The Koffin Kats”. I do a-double-take and I swing around extending my hand to Tim, who has been a musical hero of mine for years. I asked how the show had gone-and mentioned how my band was playing with The Koffin Kats the following week. “What band you in,” he asked in an almost inaudible drawl. I tell him I am in a band called Street Crime- and he turns, reading a framed playbill hanging on the wall behind him for a show that we had been part of. It was a tribute show for Joe Strummer- that had taken place just a few weeks prior. We talked for a few more minutes and I mentioned that my band had just finished mixing and mastering our debut E.P.-and if it wasn’t too much of a hassle-would he come give it a listen in my truck. He agrees and we head up the stairs. Alright, let’s take a moment to recap- here I am …drunk on my way to take a leak and I happen to run into one of my music heroes. Now, by way of bizarre happenstance … one of the first people to listen to our debut E.P is that very music hero, Tim-fuckin’-Armstrong. He pays the record a few compliments- offers some sound advice and takes a shitty burned copy of the E.P. After that we head back into the venue, I thank him, shake his hand, and, we part ways. Needless to say, I walked away like a drunken schoolgirl that had been felt-up for the first time. Back inside The Blind Pig I flashed my wrist band and immediately began looking around for my friends-or anyone to share this tale with. I found no one but a welcoming bar and a bored looking bartender. Ordering a double Bourbon I grin and shake my head at the fortunate meeting of Time Armstrong and a how odd the night had been. By the looks of it, my drunken meeting was going to be the highlight of the evening, but once again boys and girls … looks can be deceiving. As my drink arrives a rather large, lanky and imposing young man saddles up at the bar right next to me. I mean, RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I turn, looking up at my new friend. “You’re a cocky mother *%ker, huh,” He asks downward, breathing a lot of whiskey in my face? “Excuse me?” I lean away as he invades my personal space, moving his big flat face even further into my comfort zone. “Yeah … I went to high school with you. You think you’re a hard ass.” This drunken, looming individual leers at me in a disapproving-borderline intimidating manner. I introduce myself, extending a hand, inviting some rapport. “Yeah that’s you,” he sneers. “You’re that cocky piece of sh*t.” (Now I must interject. Keep in mind I am 25 years. I dropped out of high school at 15 and started attending college at 17. I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps at 18 and have done enough in my life that my school day aren’t much more than a distant memory. However, I am an assertive guy- always have been. I am also a drunken idiot and like to commence to fisticuffs from time-to-time. Now where were we … )? “Is that a problem with you, “ I ask? “Yeah.” “Would you like to go outside,” I inquire further? “Yeah” Lifting my drink to my lips I swallow the double, slapping down the glass spinning on my heel, I turn and head back out the door. As we stand outside the front door I face my adversary. I began by telling him that I didn’t remember him, nor did I care about some asinine resentment he’d been harboring for the past decade. As I continued to talk I could feel the adrenaline building. He was clenching his fists. I continued to berate the larger man. He was bouncing back and forth. I anticipated an attack. He was biting his lip in eager desire to inflict pain on me. “Well, you’ve got me out here,” I said. “Are you gonna do something?” “I’m not doing anything in front of anybody,” this jerk off stammers. “I want to go where no one can break this up.” I told him to lead the way. He continues to insult me as we walked down the back alley past the entrance to the “8 Ball”. The instinct of self-preservation had me looking for a stick, a brick or something to hit this guy with, which could be followed by an immediate escape. However the booze and prideful macho b.s would not allow it. We arrive in a dark, area by the dumpster and he turns back to me. Once again, he was clenching his fists. I questioned his reasons. He was bounced back and forth. I anticipated an attack. He was biting his lip in eager desire to inflict pain on me. “This is taking an awful long time man,” I said pretending to be bored to mask my anxiety. “Are you going to do something, or can I go back to my friends?” What happened next was a blur of words-movement and drunken adrenaline. (Did I mention he was bigger?) This guy reaches back into his soul (a maneuver referred as “telegraphing” in fighting) to throw a heavy-handed punch at me. I dodged his efforts, he stumbles and I hit him. I throw him o the ground, climb atop and proceed to give this young man a beating he won’t soon forget. I hit him many times in-and-about the face and head. He covers up and cries out (that’s right … he cries out) “Alright, that’s enough man.” “You had enough,” I yell? I slam his head into the ground again and he yelps like a small dog. “Alright, “ I said. “ Now I am going to help you up off the ground.” He stands with the lumps already showing on his face. He has a bloody nose-and is shook up. We go back inside and he buys me a drink. Next he brings all his friends over and introduces me to them … “This is the guy that just kicked my ass.” No shit … Ann Arbor has some weird shit going on out there.