Not too long ago I had to go to my bank to get a few things changed with my account. Most of it I suppose I could do online but there were a few things that I knew that I would inevitably mess up and sometimes it’s just easier sitting across from a live human being - even if they continuously attempt to get you to open a savings account with money you don’t have. So I walked in, asked to see a banker then I was directed to a little glass cubicle. Scruffy from my walk of shame, I introduced myself to the well-manicured early 30’s suit. He’s got gel in his hair, a nice tie and a fake banker smile. He asked what he could help me with, I explained my situation and we exchanged a few pleasantries. He asked what I do for a living and I tell him that I run my mouth on the internet and sometimes I fly to far away lands to talk about my sex life in front of small groups of foreign strangers. He immediately stopped typing and began asking more about books and blogs. Next thing I knew it was an hour later and my account information still hadn’t been changed. We just sat hanging out shooting the shit while he should have been talking me into signing up for some rewards program. 

Outside of the confines of drunken sports bars, camaraderie like this is rare between grown men. especially ones that look like polar opposites. But to say we got along well would have been an understatement. When I walked out of the bank I thought about him. That day I told a friend about him. It was an odd feeling, a simple exchange with this guy and I knew we could have been best friends or some updated version of the odd couple. Sometimes the spark you find in a friend is similar to a very specific spark you find in the person you end up marrying. You don’t know why, you simply know you want them in your life for whatever life you have left. I wanted to walk back into that bank and say, “Brah, I know this sounds like I’m hitting on you but dude, we should totally go get wings at Hooters tonight.” But I am not immune to fucked up social awkwardness and I know that even if he felt the same way I did that his response would have been, “Uh, sure.” Then when I walked out the door he would have told his co-workers that I must have been gay. It’s sad, really. But that’s not where I’m going with this. 

Frank Turner is my man-crush. My bro-ner. He’s so goddamn charming and witty and dare I say, handsome? Lest I forget to mention that the guy is brilliant at conveying every last feeling that I have about growing up, social expectation, politics, religion, and punk rock all within a handful of songs. You know that feeling you get when you hear a song and think, “Wow, this singer really knows ME. He’s saying exactly what I feel with this chorus!” I think about this almost every day. Up, down, In, or contemplating the out’s, I think about Frank Turner. An acoustic Black Flag. A crooked-toothed best friend. A smiling middle-fingered ambassador for grown up punks world-wide. 

How one man with so much charm and drunken grace can captivate a room of folded-armed drunken cynics with an acoustic guitar while boldly raising that banner and spirit of punk rock is beyond my comprehension. In front of what he said was his largest headlining audience in America, he killed it and brought it harder than bands half his age and better than any mohawked frontman currently singing. While I understand everyone has varying tastes, there are only two legitimate reasons how anyone could not like Frank Turner - either you don’t care about music with heart or you are just an asshole. Any and all girls I will date henceforth will be judged based upon this. And if this is what punk looks like in its 30’s well then I guess I’m still in good company. And maybe next time he comes back into town, we can get some wings. 

Dead animals: Nope.

Boobs: None.

Homophobic jokes: Nope.