Tales of a Punk Rock Nothing Read online

  Psyched. Jordana asked me to be in a band. Can’t think of anyone else I’d want to be in a band with, and I’ll be less lonely cause I’ll get to talk to her a lot.

  We need a drummer and maybe a bassist, although Jordana plays bass and guitar, and when she plays her guitar through the bass amp, it sounds pretty heavy, and good. So maybe just a drummer.

  Super Vixen’s visit to the house was overload for everyone. These guys show up, find out they can’t drink in the house, so they get wasted and sleep in the front lawn. Super punk rock. Fun and breaking rules. And they weren’t assholes. They played an all ages show and respected the rules of our house, but still had fun. Now everyone hates them, but can’t even really talk about the incident because it didn’t involve someone being “insensitive to issues.” Just a lot of snide comments about “cool punk rockers.”

  “Oh, you guys are so ’77.” etc. They just wish they could have fun too, but they can’t remember how.

  I hope I can.

  It seems like all anyone does in this house is talk about “problems.” And then more problems arise because of what people say when they’re talking about problems. There’s always some kind of misunderstanding or someone misrepresenting what someone else said. Analysis paralysis. But if I don’t want to talk then I’m being insensitive.

  Moved out of P.C. house today. Had the urge to smoke a cig, eat a burger, shoot some smack, read some porn. But the fact that I could do any of this stuff and not get yelled at by my housemates suddenly made it seem unappealing again. Ahhh, freedom.

  Hornets Nest. More like Dirt Dobber Central. All dirt all the time. Everything I own is going to be coated in grime soon.

  3 a.m. - Spray cans, backpacks, stencils. Out to eliminate nazi graffiti. Painting over “SS” and swastikas, not talking about it, making months of plans. One person decides, invites others to help, then we’re doing it. No meetings.

  Great to have housemates who will drop everything to make stencils that have pictures of the members of Kiss to cover up the “SS” shit with “KISS.” Nice to have fun doing something important and also break the law and also paint pictures of Gene Simmons all over town. Just realized how awesome it is, considering that Gene and Paul are Jews. Fucked up that nothing happened to the person who wrote “SS” all over town, but we’d go to jail if we get caught painting over it.

  First practice. Noodled around on our guitars and talked about possible drummers. Annoying that I don’t know the words or the names of all the chords. Which was no big deal when we were just playing around and not trying to remember any of it. But now we’re trying to repeat the cool things that happen.

  “That was cool, when you were playing that A, C, A and I was doing the opposite.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, when I was doing this.”

  And when she does it again, I know what she’s talking about and I can replay my part. Then we give it names. Our first song goes, “Sonic Youth Part, Jewish Summer Camp Part, Sonic Youth Part, Marchenko Plays the Sonic Youth Part Part, Jewish Summer Camp Part.” And we can play it. Now for drums, someone who knows what we mean when we say, “Marchenko Plays Sonic Youth Part Part.”

  I want to be close to people who call me on the stupid things that I say or do, I want them to have high standards for me, but sometimes it seems like things with Christa are about me being constantly corrected. She does bring up things that I wouldn’t necessarily think about. She brought up heterosexual privilege, I think mostly because I touched her waist when she came into the store yesterday. She talked about how other people have to constantly worry about the consequences of their touches. And we’re lucky that we don’t.

  But a lot of times I don’t think that we’re arguing about language or power dynamics as much as she doesn’t trust me at all and is just waiting for me to show my true, evil self. When do we get to stop trying to prove ourselves and just enjoy each other’s company? Of course Christa would say that it’s in my interest and not hers to let our guards down. Why does she want to hang out with me if she’s really worried that I’m so conniving? Maybe this is how relationships really work (and often don’t)Oy yoy yoy.

  April 22, 1992

  Hannah,

  Happy Birthday. What’s one to say? 729 days of Hannah-free driving left in Tennessee.

  I just moved into a new place-in the city, as I’m sure that M and D have told you. It’s crazy, me and five other people are all crammed into this building that’s designed to be retail space. We’re going to make the downstairs into a record store/ book store/place for meetings, and we’ll live upstairs. I’ve got a nice “office,” formerly the Omega Tax Preparation headquarters.

  Even though the house is super dirty, I’m excited about it. Everyone that lives here is really cool, and they’re all into political action. Two guys started the DC chapter of Food Not Bombs, a group that gives out healthy food for free three times a week and at political rallies. And there’s Inga, from Belgium, who helped turn this abandoned house into a bookstore and place for kids to live. I’m finally around the people that I hoped to be around when I left Wilson.

  The neighborhood is called Columbia Heights. It’s mostly a Black and Latino area. Right now, most of the stores around us are liquor stores and checkcashing places that sell Lotto tickets and stuff like that, but we’re right by a new Metro stop, and a bunch of more “upscale” cafes and stores are starting to open up down the street.

  We’re going to try not to be “upscale” like that, because when the neighborhood starts becoming more of a shopping area for people with more money, the rent will go up and a lot of people who live here might not be able to stay. Even us punks being around could be part of the problem. White people (even smelly punkers) added to the landscape makes yuppies from the suburbs feel safer and increases property value. It sucks, and it happens a lot in big cities. We’re hoping that we can use some of the energy and money of the punk kids to do something cool here. So far it’s mostly meetings and painting and cleaning, but fun. I’m in charge of the book store end of things. It’s a lot of work, but I get to scour thrift stores for good books.

  I’m in a band. It’s me on guitar and Jordana on bass and guitar and this guy Sagit on drums. Sagit is still in high school and we practice at his folks’ house. I like finally playing music with other people. I’m used to playing silly songs for you and Maureen. Oh and Jordana says hi and happy birthday.

  M and D seem pretty unpleased about the move, especially since I’m committed to being here for a while, which means more Not Attending College in my near future. It’s sucky to be turning out so foreign to them, especially since I feel like I’m who I am (whatever that is) because of what they taught me to be. I feel lucky to have had them for parents, and I wonder and hope they feel the same about how I’m “turning out.” Urrgh. What I mean is that I love them and I hope that they’re ok with all of this. Maybe they’re totally fine about all of this, and the only strain is when the Joneses come over for bridge and high tea and inquire how I’m doing at college and they have to explain what I’m doing…

  They’ve been cool about everything. I just wish that they had dreamed for me to start a really cool collective in DC. Which is more than any kid can rightly expect. Listen to me lament, while so many of the kids I hang out with have parents who beat them up and worse.

  We’re really lucky. Which ain’t to say that everything’s perfect, but we’re definitely lucky.

  I hope things are still going okay in Wilson. Write me another letter soon, please. Your stories about school are funny. Give my love to mom and dad, but you don’t need to tell them about the rats in my basement.

  Love,

  Elliot

  Adrenaline.

  You fly by the cameras, disguised as white rich kids, no one suspects you and you strike. Not a real blow, nothing that will tear down any walls, but you will create a diversion. The heart you feel beating in your throat and the sweat on your palms, you know how a risk feels
, and you know that you have to trust yourself and this is good training. You walk through a wall and all the while a million excuses and lies go through your head, and then you come out on the other side. Now you’re ready to think up bigger excuses, bolder moves, thicker walls.

  There’s absolutely no one watching. So why not?A pocket full of candy, a shirt full of books, an armload of t-shirts. And while they scramble to set up a new camera, to keep an eye on someone else, you hit behind their back. When everyone is suspect, the searches and evil eyes will be on us all, more freedom for some, a taste of being watched for those who think that they are free in the marketplace.

  What we really need is a bunch of people dressed as church ladies to pull the biggest heist Kmart has ever seen. A bunch of guys in three piece suits to get caught with crap in their pockets. But they won’t get caught, they’ll get praised, they’ll get a history textbook written about them, their conquest, just lift that land right from under someone’s feet. Someday we’ll build a Kmart there and charge them for all the stuff that we say they need. Plastic shoes, popcorn poppers, and, of course, TVs (how else can you find out about all the stuff that you need?).

  The people with the longest histories of stealing still have the most freedom to roam through the store, unwatched. My founding fathers stole the land that this place sits on, so I can pay for this shit if you want. Here, have a few green tickets.

  During graffiti correction strike #2, bumper sticker: “Visualize World Peace.”

  Visualize world peace? Maybe we can visualize paying our rent this month and see if the landlord can tell the difference. Maybe I’ll just visualize going to work from now on instead of actually going and see if I still get paid.

  Visualize world peace? Get off your ass and DO something for world peace you hippie fuck.

  The car looks much nicer now.

  Fuck. Here I sit, writing my zine. Letters from prisoners come in. How did they get copies? Wish I’d thought to send copies. Thinking of all the shit we do that’s not legal.

  “Make sure to take the staples out, and take out pages that have directions of how to do anything illegal. Make sure to address the envelope to my prisoner number, as packages with names instead of numbers get thrown out. Send stamps if you can, please. I can’t always afford to write back otherwise.”

  Article in the paper today: 18 year old girl sentenced to life for selling LSD. Article on page two: Maryland man gets 2 years for killing his wife. Meanwhile I’m thinking about the logistics of getting a P. A. for a punk rock show and renting a church basement. Marchenko say they’ll play a Food Not Bombs benefit if I set it up. Some days it feels like giving away free food is just fattening up the turkeys for the slaughter. Just keeping everyone healthy enough to eventually be useful in the work camps. But what can you do?

  I’m sure it’s illegal to have shows in a basement and charge money. Tax evasion. It’s illegal to give away food that’s about to be thrown away. To call it a conspiracy might be giving too much credit, but the actuality looks evil enough.

  Mechanically making out. Knowing that it’s not going to be too pleasing to me, thinking she just does it to please me. Feeling like it’s never that pleasing to her. Maybe we’ll get through this and passion will return. If we stop and talk about it, things will be broken beyond repair.

  She starts getting really aggressive. Hmmm.

  She says, “Let’s get out a condom.”

  While I fumble around under the mattress, the phone rings. Mariana yells, “It’s for you, Christa.”She grabs pants and shirt off the floor. Through the door I hear her talking about zine things-columns, letters, distro-it goes on for 24 and 1/2 minutes.

  She comes back in the room, looks at me lying naked on the bed, seems puzzled, as if she can’t remember who I am. I look at her for a minute, stand up. Left leg, then right leg, zipper. Socks, shoes, laces, shirt in hand, gone. No words.

  Now I understand. You “can’t be in a heterosexual relationship in a patriarchal society.” And that’s why you wanted to make sure that I had severed all ties to Maureen. That’s why you didn’t want Maureen and I to hang out for a night when I was in Wilson, because you didn’t want to be in a heterosexual relationship with me. Makes perfect sense. What? Fuck you. Leave me alone. Fuck you.

  You’re crying and you could walk and cry but you just want to cry on the stoop where all my friends are inside working on planning a neighborhood financial counseling workshop. And then you say “You just wanted to use me to do dirty things, you didn’t even like me.”

  And temper I didn’t know I had.

  And then I’m yelling, because it’s so ridiculous, because I’m dealing with someone who thinks that kissing and sex is dirty which is…

  And also that I was only in it for the sex when all I fucking wanted was things to be happy or something.

  And then I’m on the stoop, mid-yell, and I know that I’m one of those lousy parents that you see dragging their kid behind them on the subway, or that parent who wears a walkman while their kid screams on the bus, and you wonder who let them have kids, or aren’t they even embarrassed by what shitty parents they are.

  And T.K. and Inga and Tomothy inside, wondering if they should call child protective services, but there’s really no easy answers.

  “Some people should never be allowed to have children.”

  “Dirty things.”

  I wonder if you’re only allowed to become famous if you have nothing to say, or if fame becomes the point, and what else is there to say, except, “I’m famous.” Perhaps a little charity work, but not for anything too far beyond the Red-Cross.

  Or if we tune you out if you spend too much time talking about “issues.”

  After you make the winning touchdown

  Imagine all eyes on you

  You just won it all

  You can say whatever you want

  Reporters arrive

  And you don’t say, “All Glory to God”

  You don’t say, “Viva La Raza”

  You don’t say, “I love you mom and Dad”

  You don’t say, “Thank you”

  You do say, “I’m going to Disneyland,” and you make some cash

  And little kids, as they make their half court shots, say “3, 2, 1… bzzzz”

  And begin mouthing your important words

  Wonder what Aaron P. or Tina will do when they get famous. What they’ll say. Wonder if they’ll still be babbling about how they’re terrorists and their songs are bombs. When are you really famous? How many kids have to buy your records before you’re a rock star? At what point does it matter if you’re saying anything or not? At El Pollo Negro? On MTV?

  May 29, 1992

  Maureen,

  Your letter made my week. Research for $14 an hour? Beats the shit out of Wilson in June, July and August. Hope you don’t get bit by any radioactive spiders. Also, check for insects before teleporting. Seriously, though, congrats. It sounds rad.

  Can’t believe that shit you wrote about the bike derby. It takes an average SAT score of 1300 to come up with that kind of shit. I especially like the part where everyone left the bicycles and compost piles for the groundskeepers to clean up. Must be hard to discuss Melville with someone who you’ve seen covered in beer, flinging compost at groundskeepers. Lifestyles of the rich and intellectual, so charming.

  So here’s issue number two. Let me know what you think.

  By the way, I’m in a band, got tired of seeing people on stage, so I decided I’d make them watch me. It's me, Jordanna, and Sagit. So far we’re calling ourselves either “Yer a Peein, not European” or “Yanic Sleuth,” but we’re gonna change it to something more artsy soon. We’ve written three songs already, and as soon as we learn how to play them, we’re going to tour the world, or at least have a little party.

  So far we’ve been mixing business and politics in other words we’re hoping to incite worldwide revolution and maybe play some shows. We sound kind of experimental, kind of p
oppy and we all sing.

  Yours for the revolution and the protection of all innocent bikes,

  Elliot

  At this point I am trying to do the let’s be friends dance with some degree of sincerity. Snotty. I mean I genuinely want to want to be friends, but mostly I feel angry and like I don’t want to see her.

  Her reply (of course) is that if I don’t want to be friends then it proves that I was only in it for the sex (obviously untrue, sex was nonexistent, except for that one time, when it was bad). Mostly I was in it cause I thought you were rad, but then shit between us got so confused, so sex-interruptedbecause-a-phone-call-was-more-important. I just wish that I had gotten with someone who liked sex, or liked me, or both.

  We started out agreeing that we were gonna dance. But it’s really hard to dance with you when your leg is tied to the post of some idea that I can’t understand, and that one leg just won’t move. I’m not a jerk, I’m just trying to help because you don’t know how to dance and it was your idea, and I know that I’m conforming to hegemonic constructs of the history of dancing as a mating ritual, but I came all this way and I wanna have some fun, can’t you just let me lead for one song? Or you lead us both? Never mind, if I tried to cut that rope, your dancing leg would only be free to give a swift kick to my shin.

  We just weren’t meant for each other. But you were the perfect girlfriend for my guilt.

  Good practice, finally. Made it all the way through 4 songs, pieces of three others. Hope we play a lot of shows before Sagit goes to college. First show-one week. Six whole songs?