Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 73

journey, are buzzing with anticipation over what they believe to be the long awaited return of the Lemon Pipers.

But instead of the dreamy shimmer of “Green Tambourine,” in walked otherwise out of work Green Day with Billie Joe Armstrong’s eyeliner intact, though guitar slung with practiced disdain, and he’s yelling that he’s one of the beautiful people, and too big a star to be limited to two hours. He strikes a power chord and screams; “Trump sucks,” ostensibly considering that phrase timely, provocative, and revolutionary. The amps screeched. The audience gasped. A moment of generational whiplash unraveled across a sea of walkers and orthopedic shoes.

Booing erupted with theatrical bravado; “We want the Pipers! Tambourine or bust! Billie Joe sucks!” they instinctively yelled in sync as a group of retired protest veterans could, still sporting tie dye from their last ICE sit-in, generally peaceful rally with surprising agility. Someone lobbed a brick from the now defunct protest stockpile with uncanny precision. It bonked Billie Joe’s mic stand and spun it dramatically into the audience like a rogue baton.

But Billie Joe was unfazed. He took a swig from the bottle on the floor and threw a defiant sarcastic peace sign and declared, “I am punk history!” This noble stand was rudely met with cries