Recently, while going through a bunch of boxes in my mom’s basement in preparation for a garage sale that never happened, I came across a big shoe box full of pictures. Nearly all of them band pics from roughly 1998-2002, when just about everyone I knew (including myself) were involved in some sort of local rock band. Grand Island in 1999-2000, specifically, were  golden years. It seemed like every damn kid in G.I.  was in a band and every weekend you could find a show at the Super Bowl or Westside Lanes or The Rock or even Max McGruder’s. There was nothing to do in that town except meth, so any excuse to watch the owner of the Super Bowl move his fake teeth in and out of his mouth if it meant getting to hang out with everyone for a few hours was always worth it.  Of course, everybody sucked, but that didn’t stop us from thinking we were awesome. We painted our fingernails and acted ridiculously cool in the most melodramatic manner possible. T.J. wore his guyliner; I had sparkles in my hair.  We were all going to get signed, after all and we had to look and act the part.  It was only a matter of time…

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