who's sid vicious?

And so our record deal disintegrated right before our eyes and we went back to playing high school proms and bars with names like Hurl and Fatzos.

It didn’t dawn on us until we were uncomfortably well into our thirties that we were quickly approaching obsolescence.

Denny, the drummer, came to us after a particularly grueling gig at a house party and announced his retirement from the band.

"I’m gettin’ carpal tunnel, man," he said, shaking his head and walking away without looking at any of us.

There would be no more tributes to the Sex Pistols or the Dead Kennedys, no more all-nighters, no more living five to a 600 square foot studio apartment with every imaginable rodent and insect occupying our living space, no more knocks on the door in the middle of the night from the L.A.P.D. following up on reports of loud music and fights in the parking lot, no more getting stiffed by bar owners, no more getting stiff for girls who were older than sixteen, (we swear to god), no more of those alleged sixteen-year-old girl’s fathers threatening to blow our heads off, no more bloody noses, no more accidental overdoses, no more girlfriends named Starburst and Aquarius.

The soggy, foggy dream was over.

And even though we had no discernible job skills whatsoever, we all got gigs at the post office as temporary rural route carriers, and even though it bores us, we’ve found that our pillows are a little softer at night.

The women we date now have no idea who Sid Vicious was.

They just like the steady income.