Married To The Church

For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health I go to shows at The Church. I go when I am broke. I go when I don’t even have tickets. I go when I feel like shit. But there is nothing in those vows that says anything about enduring the ungodly sweltering hell of a church basement.

I get it. It’s punk. It’s cool. No air conditioning. Sweaty, hipster-punks moshing to Blacklisted or bopping to Passion Pit (before they got too cool and moved to the Mann Center). But sometimes I wonder if I will come out of the show alive. I think it might be a legitimate health risk to not have air conditioning in The Church. Maybe only a health risk for us elderly folks but a risk all the same.

The fact that I have yet to see someone pass out at a summer show at The Church is quite miraculous. I’ve seen fights, making out, drugs, weird dudes in weird hats and half naked girls but never heatstroke. I might be the first.

The fans, they so kindly provide, just don’t cut it. Sure, if you are lucky enough to stand directly in front of it you can catch a soft breeze but the people around you will give you dirty looks for hogging the breathable air. Otherwise, the fans just stir the oppressive air around.

Maybe I’m just not punk enough. Maybe I’m too old. But a vow is a vow, and till death do us apart. And death might just do The Church and I apart when I sweat my skin off at the next show.