Gothic Park

A coworker and I were discussing our teen-goth roots. I was telling him about my 18-hole steel-toed boots. He was telling me about hiding in dug outs, smoking cigarettes and reading books. I love cool losers. We got to talking about the goth characters on South Park. And the coworker dug up a site that lets you design your own South Park character.

Long ago I attempted to be a goth. I had no choice really. In my community, you could either be a jock who didn't play sports, a hippie or a mod goth. I wasn't too fond of crushing beer cans on my forehead or sporting feathered and permed hair. I wasn't accepted by the sanctimonious patchouli drumming circle. So I gladly chose goth – it fit with my love of Siouxsie and the Banshees, Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction.

But one day, when I was tromping down to a somber little cafe in Victoria's Bastion Square – goths alway hang in cafes, especially when they think a coven practices nearby — to meet my macrabe gang, I espied them waiting outside the cafe, standing shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed.

The leader, let's call him Malachai, pointed at me and said ominously, "You can't hang out with us anymore, you smile too much." WTF?

I just about threw my complete book of Edgar Allen Poe at him, but I didn't want to ruin it on such a vapid boy. What a tit.

I should have been sad to lose my mealy-mouthed pals with their straight shootin' leader. But I was too amused about the reason for being kicked out of the goth gang: I smiled too much. Hah. Who knew? I sure didn't. I thought I was a sombre, sullen sort of teen. It was rather uplifting to find out that I was, oh how shall I put it, happier than I thought.