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The famous dance cages of the Limelight, NYC

#the limelight #'punks' the novel #'punks'#clubkid #literary fiction #new novel #New York Punk #gopunksphilly

The Limelight, NYC!!!

#'punks' the novel #'punks'#new york punk #the limelight #literary fiction #new novel #gopunksphilly

Welcome to the punks nirvana, welcome to the Bowery

“OUR NEXT STOP WILL BE PENN STATION,”…….the buzzing speaker crackles for the last time before our departure. It’s been quite a trip from Trenton, so needless to say, all of the ‘Misfits’ are psyched to hear some maddening, skull crushing, hardcore acts at CBGB’s. There were a multitude of emotions spent on the ride up, so we’re quite ready to get the spirits heightened and make sure our newbie member, Sammi, is prepped, but nothing can truly ready her for the chaos of CBGB’s on a hardcore punk night.

Snatching our meager belongings, hustling rapidly from the stopped train, keeping our brisk pace through Penn Station, you can’t help notice the same story being played out in the Big Apple as well, where homeless lay everywhere, while the smell of piss and shit permeate the senses.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, this shithole smells worse than CBGB’s bathrooms,” Dust blurts out to no one in particular. I toss a Red in my mouth, lighting it up quickly. “Smoke em’ up, Misfits, at least it’ll kill some of the odor!”

Bathroom humor was definitely going to happen during this trip, because anyone who’s been to CBGB’s knows what the bathroom situation is like. The toilets have no enclosures, filth and graffiti scar and scab the walls and if you have a smart ass friend at the urinal, or some fuck ass, drunken dick who wants to make life miserable, you may just end up with your boots getting pissed on. In other words, it made for a great, memorable night at the ‘Cathedral of Punk.’

Gem and I take the lead, running the gauntlet of night crawlers, pimps, hustlers and pushers, only stopping long enough to absorb the grand view of the sparkling Empire State Building looming above us. Spotting the friendly glow of the green globe above the stairs for the 34th Street Herald Square subway, we roar downstairs over the filth and trash to snag some tokens, take care of all the ‘Misfits’ fares to save time, get through the turnstiles in order to catch the next train to Broadway-Lafayette Street Station and jump into the subway car, laughing our asses off about how a crew of batshit crazy punks from Philly, its burbs’ and Trenton navigated the city without a hitch once again. We’re only riding for a few minutes, but if you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing the NYC subway system, it could be quite traumatic for the weak of spirit or stomach.

Whereas the ‘Misfits’ may be looked upon in the confines of a suburban Philly SEPTA rail car as a menacing presence or a nuisance, in a New York City subway car, we’re nothing more than street freaks inhabiting some space. Our Thursday night ride has accumulated its fair share of earlier rush hour litter, while graffiti covers its walls and windows from one end to the other. It is chaos, despair and decadence; all of the elements which have spawned the birth of the punk movement. What is an annoyance to most, is a punks’ feel for the new reality under the not so incredible Reagan Administration, evoking a sense of where we feel the future is heading for many Americans; a future of good jobs being lost, immeasurable poverty and a post-apocalyptic feel in many cities and industrial towns. Don’t get too haughty, suburban America, because if this cycle continues, your demise will soon follow.

A growing number of punks have become savvy to the realpolitik being peddled in America and none of us are buying into the “Morning in America” line of shit that a second rate actor, a former CIA head, and a carnivorous Wall Street tyrant have sold to the gullible masses.

Gem and I are personally disgusted at the amount of people from the 60’s, Anti-War Movement, who said never to trust anyone over thirty, though growing amounts of their numbers have become the Conservative, modern day pimps and scum whose mergers and acquisitions are tearing the country apart. And as far as the Democrats go, fuck them too, since these limousine liberals have moved so far away from being a party of the people, like in the days of FDR, they should honestly be ashamed of themselves.

There are those in the punk ranks who believe the system should be totally overturned in an anarchistic fashion to bring about true democracy. There is a true, Orwellian feel about the future of America and many in the punk movement need an avenue to display their vitriol against it. CBGB’s has stood as a shining beacon for most of us, because it has given punk music a platform to demonstrate its disgust at the system through music. On a more generic level, it also gives us a place to find commonality; a place where we can blow off some steam, have some enjoyment and not feel like we are the freaks, misfits or the rabble. The hippies had their Woodstock, the punks have our CBGB’s.

The subway car comes to a thumping, screeching halt as we pull into Broadway-Lafayette Station to the acrid smell of burning brakes pouring inside while we make our escape. Gem torches up a Newp, sniffing the putrid, fetid air encircling us. “Rome is burning, Robbs,” she says with a smirk. “Sure as hell is, Gem. Well, if we’re going to witness the fall of the Empire, no better place to do it from than CBGB’s.”

Tattered jackets and filthy blankets adorn the sleeping homeless everywhere but our gang of twelve marches up the steps like a victorious army laying claim to our spoils…a place of pure debauchery, disorder and desolation to most, is now our place of solace. Gem can’t help but laugh as I blaze up a Red and grin from ear to ear, the Punk Prince and his Punk Princess, in their element and owning the night, as we walk down East Houston and after a few minutes, turn the corner, before I face the ‘Misfits’, raising my arms towards the night sky. “Misfits, welcome to our nirvana. Welcome to the Bowery!!!”

An excerpt from Rich Cucarese’s (that’s me!!) upcoming, literary fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’....Chapter 12, ‘All Hell’s Breaking Loose’

The sorrow of the 80′s in America...rampant homelessness....

Save CBGB’s ....one of the rare times, albeit unsuccessfully, that Americans protested to keep a music icon from closing....

#punk rock #New York Punk #phillypunkrock #gopunksphilly #'punks'#'punks' novel #cbgb #literary fiction #new novel #The Bowery #homelessnyc #despair

The Silver Bullet!!!

Gem’s ride in the upcoming novel ‘PUNKS’!!!

Bitchin’ Camaro!!!

#'punks'#dead milkmen #punk rock

Bitchin' Camaro!!!

Now, City Gardens is a place unto itself. It’s the equivalent of a cement warehouse dropped in the heart of Calhoun Street, Trenton, New Jersey. The name, City Gardens, has to be a play on words because there wasn’t a tree, shrub or flower within an effing’ block of this tomb.

If Calhoun Street was ever a pleasant place to live or work, it would have only been depicted that way in old photographs but as of right now, it’s very endemic of what’s going on in every city along the Northeast corridor of the United States. Thanks to the horrendous policies of Reagan and his ilk, all of the good manufacturing jobs were either moving to the cheap wage South, or even further down the map into Mexico and the rest of Central America. All that was left behind was horrendous poverty, horrific crime, a drug epidemic second to none, and burnt out shells where factories or homes once proudly stood.

Enter City Gardens into this uncontrolled chaos. Roosterheads in the projects and the ghetto; it sounds fucking insane, but it’s a perfect fit. The punk movement gained traction during the end of Carter’s Presidency and has exploded during our current President’s, jingoistic, “everything is ok white suburbia, America; just avert your eyes from the cities burning down around you,” run in office. By enlarge, the punks I know despise Reagan and his ilk, and the punk movement has given clubs like City Gardens a great place for us to catch some great acts, have some fun, but also vent out some frustration about the bullshit we see going on around America. As far as we’re concerned, the Anti-War hippies were now the Wall Street pariahs they’d said to never trust when they were young. Fucking sellouts…

The inside of the Gardens was not anymore pleasing than its exterior. The walls are painted black, half of them were tagged with graffiti, and you’d rather drain your kidneys behind the place than actually do it in their bathrooms. In other words, it was an awesome place to be.

It’s also the best place to stage dive, in my opinion. The stage seems like it is ten feet above the floor, so you can really hurl yourself into the crowd. Randy Now, the club’s promoter, is always on the PA yelling “NO STAGE DIVING!!” The last time Black Flag was here, he got pretty pissed at me and Otto for launching ourselves right past Henry Rollins. I have been tame about going into orbit from the stage since then, out of respect for Randy. He is a pretty cool guy, but Motorhead is coming tonight, so sorry Randy, but I’m taking the stage tonight, running past Lemmy while going airborne, happily landing in City Gardens mosh pit. You can pitch me out of the club for a week, but I AM doing this. Sometimes, as Gem says, you just have to be golden and glorious.

Avoiding the city’s rush hour traffic is great, booking right down 4th Street, parking directly behind Gem’s SS. It’s a gloomy morning, but a ray of sunshine is waiting for me on the stoop and she looks gorgeous for tonight’s’ event, wearing black leggings so tight, they look painted on, combat boots with bandanna’s tied around both of them; one orange, the other black, a Motorhead t-shirt, with a long sleeved purple tee underneath. The ‘No Future’ leather is on the steps next to her and a Newp is rapidly procured from its pocket.

The hair is similar to the way she wore it on Monday at the hockey game, but a temporary dye makes it jet black with orange streaks through it. She’s wearing black lip gloss, making her look vampiress sexy. “Hello, Punk Queen of the Damned. Girl, you just look good enough to eat.” She lets her warm breath tickle my neck while purring in my ears.

The senses are in overdrive but they tragically come to a crashing halt when the front door opens and a familiar, playfully admonishing tone travels down the stairs. “Hey young man, we don’t have any time for that frisky stuff! I have a job to do.” Gem snags my keys and skips to the car for my gear after Yuka, who’s decked out appropriately in combat boots, shredded jeans splattered with orange and black paint, donning her ‘Nazi Punks..Fuck Off’ leather jacket, in homage to her favorite group, The Dead Kennedy’s, gives me a warm kiss on the lips, twirls my hair between her fingers and seductively nibbles my earlobes. This is way more sensual overload than any eighteen year old, hot blooded guy should have to endure this early in the morning and both of these demonically giggling girls know it.

Hauling ass into the flat, Misty is up, greeting me with a hot cup of tea, along with an ashtray and a warm, motherly smile. She is a very dear lady to put up with all the ‘Misfits’ hijinks, but will readily admit that our chaos keeps her young. “Thanks, Misty, you’re a doll for letting me do this here.”

“You’re welcome, Rob. Oh, you’d better get a move on,” she chuckles, pointing towards Yuka, who is already standing by the chair tapping her foot.

“I think I’d better, Misty. Never keep the artist who’s doing your hair waiting.”

“You’ve got that right, mister, now get hoppin’ to Gem’s room and get changed already.”

“Yes, boss…I’ll get a move on.” I grab my gear, shuffle past her and playfully goose Yuka’s bottom before she shrieks, picking up a roll of paper towels to hurl in my direction but I laugh manically, slamming the door shut before it harpoons me.

Setting out the gear, I hurriedly throw on a long black tee, a Motorhead short sleeve over top and a torn pair of jeans with different sized ace of spades, spray painted in black and placed in various spots on the garment, and throw my other tattered leather on Gem’s chair, which has an Exploited skull painted in white on the back with the words ‘Dead Cities’ written below it, and I just recently added some silver, ace of spades on both sleeves.

Hustling back out, Yuka starts surveying her newest artwork-to-be. “I was thinking of a Halloween theme, but that’ll be too commonplace tonight, so we’re going with a Brit theme to celebrate Motorhead’s coming to City Gardens. Sit tight; you’re in for a helluva ride again, baby boy.” She gives me a peck on the cheek before she and Gem are off to the races. A lot of smoking, giggling and chaos ensue over the next few hours. ‘Liquid Cement’, red and blue mix for the colors, more little cocktail flags to twist in the tips of my Warrior Spikes….Union Jacks for Christ’s sake. When the wraps are off and cleaned, Gem and Yuka take turns getting pictures with me while Misty gets one of me and the artists’ extraordinaire.

Finally getting a chance to throw on my combat boots, Gem gives me red and blue bandannas to tie around the tops. Misty thanks us for being such animated company this morning and for organizing the flat back to its pristine condition. Making haste for Otis after snagging our gear, we haul ass outta’ Philly since there’s still classes to get through today. Gem nuzzles up against me on the bench seat and happily leaves off from Yuka’s earlier seduction, nibbling ferociously on my earlobes. Yuka, who looks thoroughly exhausted, takes up residence across the back seat, falling into peaceful somnolence on the ride to campus.

Gem goes through my mix of cassettes, starting out our venture with Bauhaus’, ‘Bela Lugosi is Dead’. We stop off at the Wawa to buy smokes and coffee as we get closer to campus since the vending company owning the machines at the Student Union figured out our half priced smokes scheme when the change box was damn near empty but all the cigarettes were gone. Word of a good thing travels fast, so they unplugged the machine, leaving the Bohemian student population to fend for themselves. Capitalism wins again.

The enjoyable sojourn culminates with us swinging wildly into the campus lot, listening to our Philly punk act and friends, The Dead Milkmen, who always have us in stitches with their songs, so ‘Bitchin’ Camaro’ is no exception, especially when Gem is in the crowd for a show and they dedicate it the song to her and the 69’, silver SS, so she loves the song for obvious reasons…

“Bitchin’ Camaro, bitchin’ Camaro,

Donuts on your lawn,

Bitchin’ Camaro, bitchin’ Camaro

Tony Orlando and Dawn

When I drive past the kids,

They all spit and cuss,

Cause I’ve got a bitchin’ Camaro

And they have to ride the bus…”

Excerpt from the draft of Rich Cucarese’s (that’s me!!) new fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’, Chapter 10, ‘The Ash Heaps’

#punk rock #bitchin' camaro #dead milkmen #city gardens #'punks'#punk rock 80's #cbgb omfug #philly punk #trenton punk rock flea market #trenton punk #new york punk #philadelphia #literary fiction #new novel #'punks' the novel

One of the tribes’ favorite places to snag a real good, Philly cheesesteak (and apparently the C.O.S. boys thought so as well)....Jim’s Steaks on South Street!!!

-Photo, courtesy of C.O.S’s, Facebook page. ‘Punks Are Out Tonight’ !!!

#punksnotdead #'punks'#punkrockphilly

Damn straight, Whiz wid'. A true Philly girl NEVER orders a cheesesteak without Cheese Whiz or onions....

Driving past the corner of South Front and South Street resembles the aftermath of a Mardi Gras celebration while trash bags, loose paper, bottles and cans roll aimlessly around the street after a heavy night of punk revelry. Smiling, peeling away from the corner, I soon approach Lombard Street, making a left and after a few turns, I’m pulling in front of Gem’s apartment on 4th Street. Siouxsie and the Banshees remake of the Beatles ‘Dear Prudence’ is blaring away on the stereo and I love it even better than the Beatles version, mainly because this is OUR song right now.

The front door of the well-kept, Colonial era, brick row home swings open quickly, Gem bounds down the cement steps to greet me with the sunniest smile. Donning another black leather jacket found recently at a local thrift store, she put her usual, artistic flair to this one as well with the Sex Pistols, “No Future” slogan painted across the back. I added an Exploited, skull and mohawk on the one arm which she shows off proudly on this splendid morning. The signature spray painted, ripped jean look is completed by a pair of “bullet holed” Converse Chucks, adorned with red, black and blue splatters sprayed across them. Her hair is pulled back again today, revealing the white stripe, but instead of a long ponytail, it’s rolled in a bun with stiff spikes sticking out here and there.

With no make-up on, she reveals the glamorous, light olive splendor of her skin tone. “Good morning, love,” she says in such a sultry voice I begin to melt. I feel her warmth move right through me and want to hold her even more. We lean in for a kiss, rapidly becoming enveloped in a smoldering moment. Morning onlookers be damned, I’ve waited for this too long to let her out of my grasp. Eventually we come up for air and lock gazes, before she smiles, kissing the tip of my nose. “Do you want to take a walk around before we head upstairs?” I open up my pack of Reds, offering her one. “That’s ok, Robbs. I still have my 60 cent Newps..” The Zippo gleams in the morning sun as does the flame between our cigarettes. “Ready to venture, Gem?”

“More than you’ll ever know.” Taking hold of her hand, we’re South Street bound to survey the glamorous carnage from last nights’ carousing more closely. “The punks and new wave kids were out in force last night. It looked like Halloween came a few days early. I admit though, it’s becoming too filled with tourists anymore. Our enclave is starting to lose its flair for originality. ‘Zipperhead’ and ‘SKINZ’ were way too crowded with the gawker set, so I just went to the Philly Record Exchange on Fifth to get some albums and cassettes and then Jim’s to get a steak and a Frank’s Black Cherry Wishniak.”

“Bitchin’! I love Wishniak! Now, Whiz wid’ or Whiz widdout?”

“Damn straight, Whiz wid’. A true Philly girl NEVER orders a cheesesteak without Cheez Whiz or onions. You former New Yorkers just don’t get Philly etiquette. You don’t even know what to call an Italian sub. It’s a hoagie, not a friggin’ hero. What the hell is that all about? A hero…”

This is how it usually goes between Gem and I, playful jousting and debating, which makes us laugh nonstop. When our friends first witnessed this, they thought we disliked each other immensely, but soon learned what we understood about ourselves almost immediately. We fed off each-others playful sarcasm, relishing in its splendor especially when we could turn it on some yuppie prick or an asshole Nazi punk in the clubs we frequented.

Holding her hand tightly, we playfully kick through the cans and bottles on the sidewalks around 2nd and South. “Shall we travel towards Penn’s Landing, dear Gem?”

“Why of course, Robbs.” Taking in the sights of this part of Philly is readily enjoyable with the mixture of apartments atop the storefronts. Many of the buildings still retain their city charm with ornate cornices dressing the peaks, while cobblestone roadways remain intact through this part of town. The steady breezes along South Front make the abundant yellow tinged treetops sway to and fro like a mosh pit crowd as we venture towards our destination.

Excerpt from the draft of Richard Cucarese’s (that’s me!) upcoming, new fiction novel, ‘PUNKS’, Chapter 3, ‘Glorious Saturday’.....