I don't know if it was the result of another long day selling things to the women of the north shore, or my lack of sleep, or my generally negative disposition as of late, but when I went to the punk show Friday night, I was brought back. It felt better then it ever had to slam into other people with every fiber of my body. Getting pushed and punched and kicked in the head by crowd surfers felt better than sex and I was really enjoying being covered in more of other people's sweat than my own.

Punk Rock has been something that I've never really understood. Is it a type of music? Well, yes, if you're the Ramones or Bad Brains or the Sex Pistols or something, but right now a lot of bands, and a lot of fans of those bands, are offended if you label the music as "punk". So I guess right now, it's not actually a type of music. If it's not a musical genre, then it can't really be a lifestyle, or anything more than some kind of put on image. Fake. Ingenuine. An army of zombies for those who don't want to join the other army of zombies, right? There's still a uniform. Liberity spikes and DIY clothes instead of Coache wristlets and polos with the collar up.

But I've been horrible lately. More angry and alienated and sad and confused than I've ever been, more reliant on music than ever...I have less faith in the concept of parties and beer games and hook ups and slutty clothes as healers than I did two months ago. I don't fit in with that culture as well as I thought I did. And I've realized I don't want to. Whatever it takes to be normal right now, I don't have, and don't see the point in trying to obtain. My peers are very into faux-happiness. This idea of projecting yourself as happy and together in hopes that maybe it will eventually be true is complete bullshit. I'm sick of backwards baseball caps and hipsters and beer and making out and pretending and working and and and and and
No. I do not want to play beer pong.
No. I cannot help you find anything that will hide your fat-ass. We have nothing in the store that is made out of magical wizard cloth. Sorry.
No. I do not think your flirty texts are witty or charming. I will not be having sex with you anytime soon.
NO I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT'S HAPPENING IN MY MATH CLASS.
NO NO NO I DO NOT THINK IT'S OKAY THAT YOU DO THOSE DRUGS
NO things are NOT going to be okay after this election.
NO I DO NOT THINK BARACK HAS A STRONG CHANCE ANYMORE
NO NO NO NO NO NO

and so I started moshing and screaming and listening to every word Jack Terricloth said like it was gospel. and I pushed and was pushed and danced and finally kind of understood punk rock, a little.
It's a zen, it's a philosophy. It's so much justified anger that you don't even know what to do with yourself. It's not fitting in with whatever is larger than you- and not wanting to- ever- and choosing not to let that control you. It's the idea that maybe chaos is the most natural form of things.
Maybe I wasn't being totally dumb when I went to all those little punk shows and wore a lot of bracelets and spikes my sophmore year. Maybe I was kind of on to something. Maybe I could break everything in my life and let go of everyone and it would be fine. Maybe I'm not constrained. Maybe all honest art is kind of punk. Maybe there's a little bit of the punk spirit still in me.

Or maybe a real '77 would just punch me in the face if they heard me saying any of this. Maybe I don't get it.

But whatever. World/Inferno ruled Friday night, is what I'm trying to say.
The devil entered the Subterranean for sure.