It’s the early 2000s, and the Back Door Poets are hosting a poetry reading at Van Gogh’s coffee shop. Seating is couches from thrift shops or donated. Folk art hangs on the walls. Punk rockers, nerds, geeks, hippies, vegans, and other cast-asides of society gather to share stories and camaraderie, and outside they share beers and cigarettes. Many of the patrons walked around the corner from a house known as the 309 Punkhouse.

We’ve all heard the jokes: What’s the difference between a savings bond and a bass player? The savings bond matures. What do you call a girl on a bass player’s arm? A tattoo. Three musicians and a bass player walk into a bar. There are so many more jokes. 

A driving sound of a 1950s-style rockabilly band spills from the Handlebar. The music rolls out to the blocked-off street and mixes with the growl of rat rod engines. Children run between scrap-metal bumpers as men and women lean over open hoods, talking shop and admiring the weld lines of the vintage cars lined up for public viewing. Spring’s blossoming ligustrum hangs in the air among the gasoline, grease, and grit.