• the217
• Life
• A Note From Home

When I was in high school, Ozzy Osbourne came to Terre Haute, Ind. The town was about an hour from where I grew up and was fairly unremarkable with the exception of the constant smell of shit that surrounded it. They said it was from the paper mill, but even then I knew shit when I smelled it. Despite the stench, a few buddies and I thought it would be a fine idea to attend the concert. When the day of the show finally came around we were so excited we couldn’t see straight, even before we’d had our first beer of the day. We felt that we wouldn’t have nearly enough time to get an adequate jag on for the show if we stayed at school until the final bell. We got out of there around lunch hour. There’s something about a rock show that can make a person crazy.

After a long-ass drive through the country, three or four 12-packs, and at least seven mix tapes, we arrived at the show. We felt like the coolest guys in the world. It’s not that we were all that special. It’s just that the residents of Terre Haute could make even the simplest of rednecks look like James Dean in comparison. We were a little drinky, the show was amazing, and despite our antics, everyone came home with the same amount of limbs they had when they left. I still remember that day longingly, even if it couldn’t have been as wonderful as I recall.

We managed to get home, detox a little bit, and actually make it to school the next morning. Honestly, I didn’t feel much like going, but there was really no option. It wasn’t guilt about the day before or integrity, it was just that I knew it’d be fun to tell all the stories about the night before and make them much more fantastic for our peers who didn’t get to go. Also, I had a pretty cool fucking t-shirt I wanted to show off. “Check it out bitches. I may be a drunken, socially inept, chronic masturbator at the age of seventeen, but I got a pretty badass shirt, so get in line and start kissing my ass.”

The shirt didn’t win me friends or improve my social standing, but it did make things sort of worse once the shit started to hit the fan. As soon as our first class began, we were called to the principal’s office. We were all in the same room and were called through one of those ancient, cheap intercom systems they used to have. A crackling voice that could make anyone under the age of eighteen piss their pants if their name was called. We all rose, smiled like we were cool, exited the classroom, and then began to freak out. The thought of trouble had never occurred to us.

We all marched into the principal’s office, smelling of beer and anticipation, each of us wearing a brightly colored, not faded in the least, Ozzy tour shirt. We were asked where we had been the previous afternoon. It sucked. They already knew, and even if they didn’t, the principal didn’t exactly have to be Sherlock Fucking Holmes to figure it all out. We all stared at our shoes and mumbled something about being sick. What we lacked in confidence, we more than made up for in unbelievability.

The principal acted surprised, that kind of condescending adult surprise that can really piss off a teenager. “That’s funny. I heard that you boys all skipped out of school to see some sort of concert.” None of us really had the stones to attempt another lie, what with the new t-shirts and the pathetic look of guilt circling above our heads. Apparently, everyone else had resolved themselves to a week or so of detention after school. I decided I wasn’t going down quite that easy.

“Um, I have a note that says it’s cool.” I offered and handed it to the man. He unfolded it and it appeared his eyes were going to pop out of his head. “Please excuse Mike from school yesterday afternoon. He and his friends went to Terre Haute to see Ozzy Osbourne. Sincerely, Mrs. Coulter.”

The principal looked at me as if some sort of decapitation was in my future. It wasn’t a prank or anything. I told my folks what we were doing and they seemed okay enough with it to write the note for me, but that really didn’t matter. Evidently, going to see Ozzy wasn’t considered an excused absence in those parts. I served my detention with the rest of them, the only difference being that each day after school I was constantly mocked for having a note from my mother. It didn’t ruin the show for me, but it damn sure ruined the detention.

These days, I’m quite a bit older and I don’t get that excited about much of anything. I am, however, very excited about next Wednesday, February 27th. My favorite band, Drive By Truckers, will be at the Canopy Club. Their new album is amazing, as are all their other ones, and for the first time in a long time, I’m all a flutter about going to see a rock show. This time, I’ll try to behave myself and I promise I won’t have a note from my mother ... unless I really need one or something.