It’s a Tuesday night in your shitty college town, but you’ve never been about the bright lights. And your friend, The English Major, is in a new pop-punk trio that just so happens to be playing downtown. You think, “Pop-punk is average.” So you go check it out. There might even be average drink specials, and average 21-year-old girls.

He tells you the band’s name references a Pixies song (seems like an average way to name your band), and that he’s bought a new phaser distortion pedal (seems like an average way to sound punk).

At 9:30 p.m. his new pop-punk trio takes the stage. You are there watching alone, but this doesn’t bother you. Because you are living the life of the artist and art-appreciator, no matter how many 4-wheelers you see driving down the middle of your shitty rural, outside-the-mainstream town. The drummer is not dressed like Green Day. He’s wearing a fleece, a 49ers cap, and a pair of New Balance. But this does not matter because punk rock is not about fashion.

You bob your head appraisingly up and down to the harsh but intelligent and raw sounds of his guitar. The music engulfs you like water into a seashell. This is overwhelmingly average.

At the last song, Your Friend the English Major announces to the crowd something that makes you excited: “Um as most of you probably know…” (You look around and see 9 people. You feel more than average. You are indie. You are elite.) “Thurston and Kim from Sonic Youth got divorced a couple days ago. So we’re going to do a tribute.”

You don’t know about this. You don’t even really know a Sonic Youth song. But you shake your head in bitter disappointment anyway. Damn shame. You raise a glass. All of you raise a glass.”To Tim and Kurston,” you say aloud. As Your Friend the English Major wails away on his Fender with his new distortion pedal, singing lyrics you can’t understand, and the sound guy yells at the bassist to turn up his volume knob, you passionately bite your lip and think about how average this all is.

Then you grab your coat, shortchange the bartender, walk home, and think about whether you’ll masturbate or not to your ex-girlfriend’s Facebook photo before falling asleep.

~Dunstan McGill