Maybe I'll send this to Craig Finn

There’s often these parties
Back in West Philly
Hip kids in the basement
Listening to Pavement

They’d last all evening
We all got sick of seeing
PBRs and Chuck Taylors,
Sparks & Norman Mailer

I don’t know what I was thinking
Doing all that drinking
Wasting my time
With fortified wine

Similar to my stance
On hookups and dance
I often spent nights
Getting into fights
With my subconscious

I wouldn’t call them killer parties
They were just OK
Back in the day
When I felt so artsy

I’d head out the back door
Hit up the liquor store
Grab a forty or four
And come back for more

This made the night easier
My pickup lines cheesier
It’d almost get fun
But then you’d get off with someone

I’d call up someone else
Hoping I’d not end up alone
But that was part of the game
Things always stayed the same

I’d hate to watch the dances
Mix it in with my lost chances
But I figured out who I was
Mixing in with the cognoscenti
At age twenty

Those weird kids with beards
And emaciated wit
Were just like I feared:
Totally full of shit

No, I wouldn’t call them killer parties
They were just OK
But those were the days
When I felt so goddamn artsy.