I am not a productive member of society, nor am I detrimental enough to make much of a difference. In the Darwin scheme of things I’d be good food, meaty and slow, that’s about it.
I survive my insignificance by writing about it and praying that the chaos theorists are right. Every time I pick up a pen, somewhere a hurricane is brewing.
Liam and I were discussing the possibility of suing America for all the damage it has caused us. America provides us with too many examples of what we should be doing with our time. It gives us a million choices of how to work, play, what god to believe in, what tv shows to watch. If you’re not satisfied with your options it’s because you’re too idealistic or you’re crazy. I like almost everyone else, have these vague misgivings about the world. Unlike most people though I [don’t have] some organized religion or some well defined sub-section of popular culture to rationalize my feelings of guilt and longing.
I thought for a long time that this debilitating confusion is what made me a punk, actually it was the leather jacket, the bad haircut, and the beer. Punk was supposed to change the world, but as I plunge further into the stereotypical punk life the more I realize it leaves me feeling just as vacant, and usually more injured.
At a show a couple weeks ago, a cook county sheriff beat the crap out of me and put a cigarette out in my face. His reasoning for being so rough on me was my androgynous hair and dress made him think I was a boy.
On my way to get red hair dye (the most effeminate color I can stand) just prior to lopping off my mohawk for safety reasons, the same group of skins/street punks (as their neatly embroidered jackets will tell) who beat me up a year ago began harassing Josh and I about our punk-ness. This time, instead of delivering a monologue on human decency, we apologized for our existence and got away unscathed.
It may seem like the pussy way out, but despite all the shit I talk I AM a pussy. Josh and I realized that most would not consider us very good punks, but we didn’t care and hadn’t for a long time.
—Gen Schock, from Muckbound (c. 2001)
