Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Johnny Rumble:
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo, a letter

When I first took this on, this job, this lifestyle, this essence of being punk rock and a punk, I was most definitely and defiantly young. An upstart. Snot nosed and still wearing whitey-tighties. I was vivacious and full of fire and brimstone, ready to take on the world and all their wrongs. To teach the people of their heathen ways of religion and automation. Full of DIY ethic and anarchy and fuck the system.

I wore the bondage pants and patched up hoodies and jackets, Doc Martens with ladder lacing. I screamed in people’s faces and chanted a chorus of Oi! at least once a day. I became a heathen among heathens at the Sunday gatherings at the pew. I remember arguing with the preachers about the existence of God and cursing their teachings of being unscientific and righteously immoral against even their own solid beliefs. “Belief is nothing without fact. To believe does not make you right,” I would say.

The food court at the mall became the place to be, right after the bowling alley tossed the crew on our asses. We sat, eating our anarchy burgers (hold the cheese), debating about the merits of politics and what it meant to be truly anarchistic.

I acquired a new name, a nom-de-plume of sorts so that I might engage in random acts of violence. Kilt Wearing Punk. Not because I wore a kilt, but because I was a fiery believer in Scottish Independence, and hated all things English. I spray painted streets with violent girlfriends and then engage in masochistic foreplay at the house. I once lit my leg on fire, just to see what it felt like.

I learned to write. To get my thoughts about anarchy down on paper. I then broke the rules of writing before I ever learned what they were. I wrote sentences and works and had them scrambled up. Anarchy was all I could imagine, all I could ever be. Because happiness that one continues to wander Francis Street in front of religion and started to deal with the oubliettes, selfishness is asserted like a good thing. And you will not come, it is proposed to the merchants without part out and they take more than they take more than they take more than they take more than they take more than they give and they take more than they take more than they give and deputies, because the success is nothing without part out I set to Fuck Off.” I saw the ladies all the best stuff shipped straight from rain and anarchy and senators, the wheel wells of being punk I was vivacious and all their just pay. There ain’t no one gives a plastic sign.

I found this strangely refreshing.

But now that I’m in the twilight of youth and finding myself sentimental and becoming heavily influenced by the thought processes of Tatsuya Ishida and Erika Moen, two among many, I find that I wasn’t really punk rock after all. I was nothing more than a fashion poser, a self-label. A tourist, if you will. I lived in a comfortable suburban home, a child of the middle class. Heir to everything I could reach with my fingertips. I never did get away from the teachings of Christ, only using the word atheist for shock value against my parents.

I was doing damage outside the system, while never affecting the insides. Never damaging what really needed to be damaged.

Now that I’m older, and wiser, I realize what an idiot I’ve been.

I’m ready for a power suit and a power tie. I’m ready to start destroying cogs from inside the machine.

Maybe I’m punk after all.

Or maybe…

Johnny Rumble

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