Hallway Punk

Someone asked me to tell them what punk was the other day. I wasn't surprised, people ask that all the time. They ask stars, they ask magazines, they ask each other. I stared at them for awhile. Had a staring contest until they called me a dyke and asked again. So I told him. I think punk is dead. He stared at me again and this time it was my turn to insult him. PUNK, say something. His eye twitches and he clenched his fists, black painted nails digging into his palms. Punk isn't dead, he says. Punk isn't dead, have you listened to the radio? Punk's all over. AFI, Dropkick Murphys, Tsunami Bomb, punk isn't dead. So I smile and I know he's getting angry with me, but I don't care. When have I ever cared? Punk died. Joe Strummer died. Sid Vicious died. Punk died. Punk died the day you started dressing like a punk and hurting everyone who wasn't. Punk died the day you called yourself punk. Punk died the day you went out, bought all those safety pins and decided you were better than everyone. Punk died and you killed it. There are no words coming from his mouth for a moment. I almost expect him to call me a dyke or something equally redundant like a cunt or bitch (did you know the vagina is the strongest muscle in either gender? Funny, that). Finally, he runs a hand through his mohawk held up by some sort of egg/past mix that I'm not sure is so good for his scalp, purses his lips and turns away, shoving himself into the mass of writhing teenage bodies.

Yes, this is different. Yes, it sounds like a journal entry, it's a conversational narrative...thing. Yes, I may be putting down some people. No, I don't care. And no, I will not justify any reviews telling me how wrong I am or how I shouldn't be talking about punk. There is basis on personal events and I wouldn't change one word of it.