this outtake is about time travel. tic tock.

Over the weekend I traveled back in time. I woke up at six a.m., got dressed in jeans, a tee-shirt, flats, and a red Peacoat and walked with my suitcase and travel mug of coffee to the train station in my Atlanta neighborhood. I journeyed to America’s busiest airport and hopped on a plane to New York City. One hot tea and three airline cookies later, I was greeted by two people who have known me since infancy, my cousins Tina and Ryan. We would be meeting my best friend since the age of 15 later in the day, but for now, our destination was Brooklyn. We took a cab to Ryan’s place, and the second I set foot in his two-story apartment, I knew I had turned back time to what I like to call the BMBC years: before marriage, before children.

In high school and college, my friends and I took off monthly to see bands play out of town. Growing up in Virginia, we usually hit Richmond, D.C., or NYC. Exploring the East Coast was so easy. One paycheck from my job at a record store paid for gas, fast food, tolls, and a single hotel room shared by a few of my closest friends. We didn’t go to the theatre or shop at department stores. We couldn’t afford Urban Outfitters. We just wandered the streets, got lost on various forms of public transit, watched bands, and goofed off.

I have a love-hate relationship with the BMBC years. I loved the friendships and the total dedication to self-expression through art, writing, and music from that time of my life. It’s hedonistic, for sure, but it helps you grow into yourself. And nothing tops the adventures. But the day-to-day life of that scene can be draining. Outfits should be stylish, but not trendy. Scenesters know bands like the wealthy know stock options; it’s a lot to track. And anyone who says that shit doesn’t matter is full of it. If it didn’t matter, they’d be away from it all together, which is what happens, whether you want it to or not, once you become a parent.

Post marriage and kids, the spontaneous, creative life is seriously challenged. If keeping up with bands or indie films and the like was tough during single life, as a parent, it’s nearly impossible when you’re busy with homework, volunteering at the kids’ school, doctor’s visits, work, and putting dinner on the table. Free time is limited, and my free time (read after the kids fall asleep) is mostly spent watching sit-coms via Netflix, because I prefer laughing to thinking at the end of the day. And those cute little vintage dresses and indie haircuts that give you credit with the girls and make the Mod boys go gaga? There’s no money for such things, because most of us chose “rewarding” or “creative” careers that don’t pay so well, unless of course you happened to actually make it big doing one of your artistic endeavors. A few of my friends did, but not the ones with kids…

Once you have kids, you’re lucky if you get a moment to play a lullaby on the guitar, let alone keep your band going or support your friends’ projects. To be honest, having kids was kind of a nice break from all of that. Still, there’s a lot of love in that scene. People sincerely love the music. It can literally be a life saver. I know it was for me. And the crossover of music into artwork, fashion (or anti-fashion), and politics is fulfilling in many ways. I missed the community after I became a Walmart mom, which, let’s face it is about as un-punk rock as it gets, but they have REALLY cheap wine.

Being in the city with my childhood best friends brought me back to my days of being a punk rock socialite, and I was happy to dive in at least for a weekend. Ryan’s Brooklyn apartment charmed me right away. It was just like his studio apartment in college, only double the size. The bottom floor had a futon with a mix match of blankets and a huge stuffed tiger lounging there, king of the concrete jungle style. Artwork from his nieces and nephew decorated the place, along with a few crafts from his global trekking. Ryan was in the Peace Corps years ago, and the international flair has not left him. A spiral staircase took us to the top floor, where we found the bedroom and kitchen. It was a bachelor pad for sure, but a sassy one, and it qualified perfectly as my vacation home.

We ate lunch in at a small, dimly lit place that served a good mix of sandwiches and vegetarian choices. No sweet tea on the menu, but that’s to be expected anywhere north of Virginia. Every person who walked in reminded me of someone I used to know from college. The corduroy pants, flannel shirts, and vintage glasses: has nothing changed in the decade plus since my bar hopping days? I was at once comfortable by my surroundings, yet completely out of place. It was familiar, but not home. Where were the high chairs stuffed with fussy kids being shushed by their moms? And the handbags full of baby wipes, Goldfish, and hand sanitizer? Surely, those messenger bags have none of these staples. This is not the real world. This is total hedonist territory, complete with hipsters and tuna melts.

As a mom of two kids under the age of five, a little self-indulgence isn’t such a bad thing. We traveled via subway and cab, both of which would be impractical with kids in tow. We drank beers at happy hour in the city, ate Thai food in a hallway of a restaurant, followed by a full night of chatting it up with seven Irishmen, who, it turns out, take dancing and CCR very seriously. I stayed out until 5 a.m., and it didn’t involve a hurt child at the ER! Day two was lunch in Hoboken, NJ, a disco nap at my best friend’s place in Bayonne, and back to the city for more shenanigans. More dancing, this time with gay men, who may or may not be dating closeted celebrities, and more good times with old friends, again until 5 a.m. It was exhausting, but so worth it. Kind of like motherhood.

It took me two days to recover from the trip because there is no sleeping in when you have children. But now I am refreshed. I may not know about 99% of the bands who play those NYC bars, but I bet you I know who influenced them. I still can’t afford Urban Outfitters, but occasionally, I hit their sales rack and buy a replica of a dress that I owned 15 years ago. And, I may not have much time to write songs or remember to record them, but I do a lot of improv for my kids singing and dancing around the house. They especially like a little number called “doing the pee pee dance.”

Of all the things that I loved about my past, the bands, the clothes, the homemade zines, and the rest, the friendships outlast all of it. I’m a little sad to be so far from my friends, and that stuffed tiger, but I know we will meet again soon, because I will make the time. And because my best friends don’t care if I know more cartoon theme songs now than the latest underground wonder. Peace out, Brooklyn, and don’t forget your hand sanitizer.