More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
He was never a bad parent, just a person trying to figure out his life. We both were.
Edgier, darker songs spoke to me. I was drawn to bands like Echo and the Bunnymen, Simple Minds, and the Psychedelic Furs.
Heather was the kind of girl who drew the Dead Kennedys logo on her shoes.
We punched our V-cards at another friend’s apartment while Bauhaus played in the background.
When no one was looking, I ducked behind the counter to take nitrous oxide hits from the whipped cream containers. Customers stepped up to an empty register, only for me to rise slowly like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Tom tried some vocal melodies. He had a snotty, nasally voice, and I backed him up in the choruses.
We were fearless. Invincible. Ascendant. Immortal. Fuck you.
DIY wasn’t an aesthetic; it was a necessity.
Maybe the real 182 is the number of friends we made along the way.
Each of us gets a sausage biscuit with egg that we eat in the morning light of a parking lot. God’s forgotten children. I brush my teeth over a trash can.
Tom and I were constantly competing for the spotlight.
“Don’t bother. He changed his number. He doesn’t want to talk to you. He doesn’t want to talk to Travis. Tom is out.”
I fucking told you. You don’t belong here. blink-182? Your life? Nothing. A one-in-a-million shot, and now it’s gone. You’re fucked. Remember Box Car Racer? You knew it then.
We spent that summer on tour, playing giant amphitheaters with Weezer.
