“50/50”
You are deep asleep and don’t feel a thing as they inflate your large intestine for a better view of this mess. You figure there’s a 50/50 chance of them finding something scary. The family has had gut problems going back generations, but you just figured everyone else lives in this constant cramping pain of 24/7 severe gas. It’s almost insulting that this entire aging thing happens to you. You used to read Spin magazine cover to cover. You had huge plans. You weren’t supposed to wind up settling down with miscellaneous ailments like the rest of the losers. You were gonna party forever at the Music Hall of Williamsburg with The fucking Strokes, man. Right? ..Right?
“Alone, Together”
There you are, alone on a table dreaming as a medical professional takes paparazzi photos of your innards. The camera has you on full display. The footage is arresting: is that what you look like inside? It looks like the tunnel El Chapo used to escape. It looks like one of those worms from “Dune.” You think about how grateful you are that camera phones weren’t a thing in your youth, but you also wish you had footage of seeing The Strokes at Mercury Lodge before they blew up. You remember the bouncer making fun of you for saying “Houston” Street and not “HOW-ston” Street, an accidental slip-up that from then on you mercilessly reprimanded other strangers about.
“Automatic Stop”
And just like that, it’s over. You wake up in a daze. The light through the windows looks like those weird art chandeliers at Glasslands you used to stare up at while tripping your face off. You think about all of the chemicals you ingested, how much scarier it is now with fentanyl quietly mixed in. This still doesn’t stop you from occasionally buying from the sketchy dude under the train station bridge, the dimebag still sitting snugly in the pocket of your crumpled-up khakis in the corner.
“On the Other Side”
That’s it! You did it. The worst is over. You look around the recovery area, juice on the table in front of you, busy nurses hurrying by. Sure, you’re a bit bloated from the air, but you’re used to that at this point. You throw back on your AirPods and lightly bounce to this 2006 song. You are asked to keep still since you’re still in recovery, but rock n’ roll doesn’t slow down for anyone, man. In another 20 years you’ll probably be asking your heart surgeon what they think of The Strokes, just to test their indie cred.
“Is This It”
The fucking jam that started it all. Album one, song one. Let’s go, baby. Except you have this lame-ass After Visit Summary. Turns out your doctor is super concerned. He removed tons of polyps, but there were some large ones that he was unable to get to. There is worry in his voice. He’s also indicated a patchwork of ulcers inside, plus extreme inflammation. Something about infection of pouches in the colon. Boring! You were too busy to think about ulcers when grooving out in The Slipper Room and downing picklebacks with Interpol’s tour manager. You think about spending Sundays walking around Central Park to this song and ignore the concerning circular anatomical photos on the screen before you.
“Meet Me in the Bathroom”
After showing you the hall towards the bathroom, the doctor says he’ll meet you back here in a few minutes. As you relieve yourself, you think about this song and the 2022 documentary of the same title. Why didn’t they reach out to you for an interview? Total missed opportunity. You were the most connected person in that entire scene. You even squatted in the Bowery Electric at one point. You tried showing it to your wife and kids, but they found it super boring, plus you wouldn’t stop talking over the entire doc. You want to call up old friends to talk about the live shows you used to go to and the crazy wild nights you had, but you realize that nostalgic calls aren’t really the vibe of gastroenterologist bathrooms.
“The Adults Are Talking”
Since you are still woozy, your wonderful wife Maureen walks in and talks to the doctor, ready to pick you up. You watch Maureen listen to a detailed step-by-step outline from Dr. Winogrand regarding your treatment plan. Maureen nods. Lots of pointing with Bic pens at various forms and numbers. You hazily sign something, unsure of what this is. Maureen looks incredibly nervous. How bad could it be? You rocked that colonoscopy. You think about how fucking cool Julian Casablancas would be at his colonoscopy. You put on your sunglasses, fold your arms, and slide into your waiting room chair, knowing you’re the hippest dude in this entire clinic.
“You Talk Way Too Much”
OK blah blah blah blah, let’s get this show on the road. Dr. Winogrand just won’t shut up! You get it, you’re at a high risk for colon cancer. Message delivered, pal! You just want to get to Buffalo Wild Wings! The location near your house is the best part about moving to the suburbs. There’s a bartender there that used to write for Pitchfork and sometimes he’ll even play The Strokes. How cool is that?! In your post-anesthesia stupor, you question just how much you’ve drunkenly opened up to that bartender at Buffalo Wild Wings.
“Happy Ending”
Maureen seems deeply troubled about the results, but you’re just happy it’s over. As you slide into the passenger seat, you look out at the passing corporate parks and mini-malls that dot the drive back to your house. Maybe the suburbs aren’t so bad after all. Maybe you can stop forcing your kids to listen to The Strokes bootleg live recordings just so they have “street cred.” We can’t all have our “happy ending,” though, because now Maureen is saying you shouldn’t stop at Buffalo Wild Wings with these colonoscopy results. You agree, knowing that later you will secretly sneak out to Buffalo Wild Wings to binge yourself silly and play air guitar to The Strokes.
“The End Has No End”
Just when you thought it was done, you realize you have an outpatient appointment in two weeks regarding the iceberg-sized polyps dwelling inside of you. And then you’ll have to do this again, every five years. For the rest of your life. There isn’t an end in sight, the ripples of this moment will be forever consequential. Just like the 2000s New York indie music scene, man. In your heart, there will always be room for dehydrated scenesters shuffling self-consciously to angular garage rock. The spirit of The Strokes continues as long as there are ear-shredding venues in overpriced cities and indie gatekeepers like yourself. Rock n’ roll, like your IBS, will live on. The end truly has no end.
Photo by Roger Woolman
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