PUNK: Lonesome American Memoirs
9: No More Heros
The lights are out, and no one is there. I’d heard on the radio that Darby Crash was dead, and there was going to be a candle light memorial at the record store. So I went up there with Mike. But no one was there.
The streets get quiet at this time of night. Nothing happens. People quietly walk from one place to another without pausing to talk.
I was still wearing my ‘Sid is innocent’ button when Darby Crash died. The Germs were one of my favorite bands. Fuck they were good. At least the album was good. But there was no one there. No one showed up.
Why didn’t they show up? I mean, I showed up. Michael got out of bed and came with me. We were there. Another dead idiot. Another good band finished. Another artist, poet, queen in a straight tough guy costume, dead on the floor of a bathroom. Whatever. Who cares? I don’t care. But I was there.
A cop car drives be slowly, and I just stand there smoking a cigarette. Looking at the cop looking at me.
First Sid, that stupid idiot junkie, and now Darby. What’s the point of looking up to anyone? Deciphering what they write, what they’re trying to say. When Darby snarled and spat out those poetic lines of prose they sounded so hard, and rhythmic. They sounded masculine and punk rock. When you read the words, they were complicated, and it seemed impossible that those were the same words he was saying. Somehow he’d managed to fit the words into a smaller space by slurring them all together into some kind of indecipherable tongue of a language that resonated with angry young people.
The world was being pushed around by Reagan; he was a detestable and shameless puppet for an administration whose only interests were war, lies, and money. They talked about values, gods, families, and freedom. They talked about that all the time. But what they did was gas the Kurds, bomb the middle east, economically blackmail an alternative system of ideology, and solve the American drug problem by writing off anyone over 8 years old, and tell the kids who were younger than that to “just say no.” They cut the funding for public rehabilitation, built more prisons, and when the farmers in the plains states lost their farms because public subsidies were being withdrawn, they flew out there to see the poor bastards to tell them that it was a shame.
Whining and crying about it, however poetically, didn’t make any difference. Gathering together in halls, and plazas shouting, chanting and demanding justice didn’t make any difference.
I remember when a young kid was arrested in an anti apartheid protests on the UC Berkeley campus. The people felt that the arrest was unfair. A mob of people flooded the streets between Bancroft Way, Telegraph Avenue, and Durant Avenue. The police car couldn’t move. Backup couldn’t arrive. It was a showdown. The people pounded on the car chanting “Let-him-go! Let-him-go!” Eventually there was nothing the cops could do but uncuff the kid, and release him. I’d never seen what the people could do until that moment.
But to sing about it, and cut your arms up with broken bottles, to look cool, or to shoot up in the bathroom and never come out didn’t make a difference.
The cop car rolls away. I’m just standing there by myself. Michael has gone. The store is closed. There are no candles. No people. Just me. I was there.
I was sorry to hear that you died. How you died didn’t matter. Why Tim and Jeff were laughing about your death on the radio, laughing about you, I didn’t understand. I began to feel that the things I placed value upon, the really important things might not be important. The people who I’d always looked to as a surrogate set of teachers, or examples, we just as self destructive as I was. Maybe nobody understood. Maybe nobody cared. I had always thought that to say ‘I don’t care‘ meant that you absolutely did care. That the world had its head up its ass, and there was some sort of truth in the street corner. To stand here, day in and day out, frowning, spitting, yelling, handing out coupons, spray painting Hari Krishnas, chasing off the trendies, and jeering at the hippies was my love letter to the world. My closest companions were often the homeless, and the insane.
I walked from 4th street all the way up to the Ave. with a guy who told me all about Sterling Moss, the fastest race car driver in the world. He was eating this chow mein he’d scored out of a garbage can and kept trying to share it with me. He had this little plastic case full of reasonable sized cigarette butts. He’s light them one after the other, offering them to me after he lit them saying “You smoke? It’s pot.” I’d decline. We spent a good two hours together. There was no greater symbol of political action or social momentum that I had to offer than to spend my time. To give my presence. To offend the mundane, and shoo off the detestable. Of course it was more like stamping on floors and patting on walls to clear the room of cockroaches. As soon as you stopped tamping and pounding they would just come right back.
But to grab a hold of a man and make love to him. Feel the bristle of his razor stubble against my face, my back, my arms, and to imagine that this was some kind of love meant nothing. What taboo was I breaking? What difference did it make to anyone?
To go home with the one leather queen in Berkeley, a very sad little bookish man who walked the streets at night in his leather jacket and chain looking for love in the darkness. To cuddle with this man, drink his apple cider, keep him warm for a night, steal his loose change, and the bills in his wallet and be gone before he woke up was not a crime. It was an exchange of affection. A soothsaying of the ordinary. That man had more courage in his blue vinyl cock ring than any preacher, or pig I’d ever met, seen, or heard about.
To take a woman’s legs, and slowly spread them apart. To look into her vulnerable eyes and then dive into her with my mouth and caress her with my hands. To feel her softness, her smooth skin against my bony, awkward, and very skinny body and to imagine that this was love, or beauty meant nothing. But to take someone up on her offer to come back to her house, eat her food, listen to her new wave records, and then agree to get and give a back rub, which turned into fragile, vulnerable, and delicate love making meant something, didn’t it? She never spoke to me again. I never saw her again. She chumped me. Her boyfriend, Craig, saw me again. He was more than happy to get into my face and tell me about anything and everything with venom and bitterness, but never had the courage to say what it was he was really angry about. She was brave, and courageous. She asked me to come. She asked me to come inside of her. She took me. I didn’t even say a word. I would have stayed. I would have joined her. But that wasn’t why I was there. I was a segue. I was a viaduct. She just watched me with one eye open while I rifled her handbag, and grabbed a stack of her records and let myself out. The meaning was in Craig’s foul heart. It began and ended there. It didn’t mean shit to me.
To scream at the moon, run up the street as fast as I could with tears running out of my eyes, track all over my arms, scars all over my body, shit in my pants, piss down my legs and imagine that I was making some sort of sacrifice for truth, or giving myself with devotion to art and an expression of something vivid, modern, and real meant nothing. If there wasn’t anyone there to see me. If there was no proof, then it may as well have never even happened.
Allowing his hands to reach around me and caress my scrotum. To smell his cop cologne and cigarette breath while he does his thing behind me was a means of accepting that I was nothing. That this meant nothing. Maybe in the mind of the pig, he was enjoying some fantasy of dominance. He was living out some helpless, decidedly little dicked dream of power, control, and filth. He was a married cop. But he needed me. He needed some degree of touching, intimacy, compliance, resistance, struggle, and surrender. It was what made it work for him. But it was nothing to me. It was only an infection in his own needing, wanting, shivering heart that had value. Just lust. Just a primal, helpless need. Nothing I imagine he had ever really thought about. Nothing he could face. Nothing all the gin he was drinking could erase.
The idea occurred to me that maybe the protest against debauchery, frivolity, and excess. My jealous hatred for the beautiful people in discotheques and polyester pant-suits, bra-less 70’s boobs, people with money, people with hope, people who could look at themselves in the mirror and feel nothing but respect and love despite their own detestable participation in a world which doesn’t care, could give a flying fuck about anything but bank balanced, credit reports, property, and power was nothing more than a selfish and petty pantomime of self hatred.
Fuck you. Why did you kill yourself? You shit head. We’re all as confused as you are. We’re all as totally fucked up and strung out as you are. No one knows the answer. And yeah, the pain is almost too much. But you fucking chickened out. You pussied out and took a powder. And I believed in you. Wanted to be like you. I was listening carefully. But you were full of shit.
“The mistake Sid made was that he believed in all this bullshit” was the quote. Some clown with a half afro slobbering about what had gone wrong. What the fuck do you know? I figured that if Jimmy Pursey could see the ignorance and horror of his skinhead movement, turn around and create music about equality and truth, then fucking anything was possible. It’s not really uncanny that the new Sham 69 music sucked, but somehow when you have a change of heart, the music has to change too. I didn’t have to understand it, or even like it. No one did really. ‘The Game’ was a terrible album. But it reflected something that I was proud of. Gave me hope that there might be something besides racism and hate. But then again, nothing really felt quite as good to me as really dirty, hateful music. Pain. Pain was the path. An expression. Globalizing my insides, without developing a language to discover myself, but to blame the world. And resonate with anyone I could find. More often than not I was left alone. Like now. Like right here. Just standing here feeling chumped, duped, had, hoodwinked, stupid.
If you don’t believe the bullshit, then what the fuck is there to believe in?
I believe in a needle. I believe in a bag of dope. I believe in nothing. I fucking hate you. Fuck you. You cop. You faggot. You sell out. You shit for brains little no-good piece of shit.
So when there was no one left, and I was tired of standing there trying to feel something.
Something I just didn’t feel.
I went home.
I didn’t give a shit
Soundtrack:
The Germs ‘Lexicon Devil’
flash player required
56 Comments
thank you for sharing these chapters…i’ve really love reading them and I look forward to more.
Love!
Thank you for your response.
I’ve written this book already. This is the rewrite process (the first one anyhow.)
It’s slow, because I rewrite as i go, sometimes removing huge parts of the work, other times expanding into totally new areas.
I’m ok with how it’s coming along.
Your appreciation, as my sister and friend, means a lot to me.
thanks.
sunshine,..
keep writing, and i will keep reading.
these stories are amazing.
it’s really heavy shit. vivid, the part
in chapter 5 about the first time
shooting up in the shower. it made me
queezy, and i don’t get queezy easily.
i really respect your writing and your
honesty in shareing these stories so
openly.
thank you.
I hope, in and among the heavy shit, you’ve got some perspective and are able to laugh too. It’s true, most of this is the abolute worst of my life. But there’s a lot of love in my writing, forgiveness, and hope. I hope you are laughing along with me, even if you are horrified or disturbed.
we’ll see.
1311 more chapters to rewrite.s.
sunshine,
your writing is filled with perspective.
you’ve got me laughing, singing, smileing,
sad, happy, forgiveing and hopeing. it’s as if
i was following you around while it was going down.
all i’m saying is i can feel the love in the stories.
no worries.
love
gino.
Now if only i could actually say what it is i want to say, the way i want to say it without a non-stop-run-on-sentence, we’d really be making some progress.
style=content
s.
Reading this memoir (I’ve read through chapter 8: ‘Call Home’ so far) is so interesting for me. It boggles my mind that you were out having these experiences while I was at home being a little girl. I have spotty images of you as a ‘punk’, but it never ceases to amaze me how little I know of your history. Your experiences. Your trip (both kinds). How carefully sheilded I was from the reality of the situation.
That all being said. ‘Call Home’ made me cry. I love that chapter.~~Another thing I love is when you’re telling the story and then you suddenly admit that that’s not the way it really happened. I remember you once told me you used to make up stories that were completely not true and to be honest, I’ve done that too, so I relate to rearranging events and making them work out better in your imagination. It’s a great writing tool for you!
I love the honesty, the unapologetic voice, you’re using to tell this story.
Thank you! I’ll keep reading…
*a.
Meaning comes from contrast. What is a good existence?
The sociopath lacks any conscience at all and lives inverted; their life the opposite of meaning, a black hole, sucking pieces of other lives into the bottomless chasm. Evil.
The schizophrenic falls out of reality or never enters it, and lives doomed to an infinite spectrum of secret meanings that can’t be validated. We give them medication, trying to help them find some kind of contrast.
Finally, an existence more ironic than all others.
The one who strives and yearns to always do the right thing, to please, every breath hoping, that they are a good person, yearning for meaning through purity. Perpetually striving to burn off the impure within. Any weight to even the small inevitable mistakes and rebellions simply evaporates; a puff of smoke incinerated by the never-ending guilt, the screaming hypocrisy. Purity isn’t goodness. Purity is nothing. This one never existed at all.
Blessed are the contrasted.
Nate, that’s beautifully said.
impressive.
I’m going to spend some time re reading and reflecting on your words.
Thank You.
s.
sunshine, fyi.
some people are signifigantly more resistant to HIV than other people.
interesting stuff. specially bout the needles.
i cant stand needles now.
very interesting, very cool (is that the right word?)
erich
Well, Thankfully it seems I was in and then out of the IV Drug world before patient zero arrived.
I have no idea why i don’t have AIDS or HIV. I was seriously depressed about that for many years. Felt that i should be dead, while other, much more wonderful people should be alive.
I have forgiven myself, and today I count my lucky (fucking) stars.
It’s hard, i think, for a young person of today to relate to what the hell we were thinking in the late 70’s. It was truly another time altogether.
However, I am deeply grateful that we can relate so much better today than we could then. The disparity between decades was so vast and impossible to breech.
It’s better now in so many ways.
Even if there is a Bush in the whitehouse. It’s still better.
I’m done.
(with the second re write)
I’ve read it all now. And as I sit here alone, fighting tears from running down my face, I simply feel so supremely grateful that you are here, alive, and are my family, my friend.
While I cannot imagine how cathartic it may have been for you to write (re-write and publish it here) it has also been cathartic for me to read. I understand you more now. Understand why you tell me certain things. Adivse me in certain ways. And I am even more proud now to have you as my brother than I was before. Because you’re really fucking brave and wonderful!
A Third revision is now reposted here. I went through and corrected all the spelling, grammar, syntax, and tense issues that I could find.
A few things were revised, other lines added, and a few portions removed. I also included an incomplete errata section. So if you have questions about language, frame of reference, or slang used in the work, let me know and i’ll add it to the errata portion at the end.
I have a .pdf of this now too if someone preferrs to read things in a different way.
Draft 2 technical revision 3 is now complete.
sunshine,
this was an amazing read. i feel
like i know you on a different level
now. i’m not sure how to explain it,
or if those are the right words.
i am so happy to have met you
and to be able to call you a friend.
again, thank you so much for shareing
these memories.
love,
gino.
Thanks Gino and Ali,
I really, really appreciate your input.
Sunshine,
I have a freind who I belive would love to read your book.
His name is Tomas. We met about 13 years ago when he came to Amsterdam. He is a light engineer for parties. Before coming to amsterdam he moved from a smalltown on the Swedish coast to Big town Stockholm. There he got into contact with punk culture.
Our conversations often come to this period but i have little knowledge or experience about and with punk culture, nor such a ‘life period’. I think he’ll really relate to your book
Tomas not having internet, it would be great if you could email me that pdf file. If this is to far fetched for you, i’ll understand. But i think we can make someone happy here
Joera
Joera,
It’s at the end of appendix II, at the bottom of the page.
Dear Sunshine,
I started reading your memoir today and didn’t stop until the end. It’s some of the most engaging writing I’ve read in some time. All I can say is…wow! What a story. In some ways it cetainly did take me back; it has been a long time since I’ve heard mention of Martha and the Muffins or Japan, or a number of the other artists I used to listen to as in the early-80s. At one point you mention this as fiction, but in most of your comments you discuss it as autobiographical. That has left me a little unclear…these are your memoirs? Anyway, it sure is a compelling story. What’s next?
Thanks for sharing your thoughts,
Astral
I’ve corrected a few pretty awkward paragraphs today, and reloaded the .pdf file with revision 3b instead of the old Rev 2. Just too many errors in the pdf to leave it up here with any degree of pride or good feelings.
Enjoy the corrections.
i miss the pics in the chapter headings in the pdf.
me too.
The online version is much better.
: )
FYI: While I’d prefer to talk about this book here, there’s also a thread about it over on the imperial DUB message board. That’s located here
One very minor thing. I really liked the song samples, and when I would get to the bottom it was nice to listen while finishing up the end of the chapter. Then I would move on to the next and the sample would stop, and I was too anxious to keep reading to go back and listen to the whole track. If the sample was listed at the top of the chapter, then it would make for good background music while reading. I’ve never read a whole book online before, but sure was drawn in to your tale.
You know, I felt that the “soundtrack” was essential. And i toiled over how to present it. I thought about adding the music at the head of the chapter, and realized that it was difficult to read while listening. Next i thought of only including the music in the musicology section at the end, but that would alientate the songs, isolate them and leave them hanging out back for no real reason.
Finally, i felt that adding them at the end was best. When you are done reading the chapter, you can sit a minute and just listen. Sometimes it’s irony, but most of the time it’s release.
That’s what i was thinking anyway.
s.
i have a couple of friends in boston that were in to the punk scene here when they were growing up and i let them know about the book. just wanted to let you know that they’re both enjoying it and tellign their friends too!
erin
Well, it has been a long time. Thanks Mr. Shine. The time we spend on this planet is a human journey. We interact with others, take obsevations and construct patterns. Style, economy, hopelessness, biology, cities, come and go. At the root of it are our connections with others. The reflections we see of ourselves in those on TV, in person, in a book, over the phone. China today, or perhaps Central Asia, is the place of new emerging art and social condition. Yet, the old west, the Transbay Terminal, the blue jeans, the United States, from Douglas MacArthur to Sally Mutant, are worth recording, and examining – All before the environmental and economic collapse. Still connection and a shoulder to lean on make it worth it. Girls, boys, love, music, drama, sly eyes, and the beat beat beat make it real.
Love, -Peter
Peter,
you are stealthily buried in there too. disguised under your former psudonym. i wanted to tell the story of the night that i snorted all the rest of the speed off your living room table so that the yucky girl i’d been with all night wouldn’t do it, but i felt i’d described my state of mind well enough to leave that out.
Also, fine a fellow as you have always been, there just wasn’t a lesson to learn or point to make about people like you who were (or seemed to be) wise, and thoughtful, enjoying themselves and never terribly judgmental.
That and a fucking great artist!
I’m saving the blossoms for the next book. It’s begun…
Hope you enjoyed this read, and found mercy, and all the love i put into it.
I wrote it very specifically for you, and all of us who chose some of the more difficult paths.
love,
Sunshine
i really enjoyed reading this.
Thanks, Sunshine!! :)
I’m loving the book so far.
I really hope you keep writing.
-jason
** reprinted here in part from another entry. Placed into context for the benefit of those who come to links here, and read without browsing the rest of the journal. **
I am the ex-bass player, not singer, of Animal Things. This is not my superhero status. I read what S. Jones wrote about me and am pleased that my maternal instinct has been consistant…I have a three year old son, Emilio, and based on the parenting I got I’ve wondered how it is I know how to be a good one. We can react to what we didn’t get and provide it, or we can live an unexamined life and just pass the shit on. Who are you S. Jones?
Tresca
Wow…
I’m so blown away to hear from you.
Not only did I miss spell your name, but I forgot that you were the Bass player…. Of course you were.
[color=green]/* slaps forehead */[/color]
I will write.
Thank you for your reply.
I just re-read the piece…amazed that it was edited so swiftly….but the part about your accent..the fake british one…i remember you! I just started writing a memoir of sorts…memory is so strange…it almost doesn’t matter what actually happened, but how it made us feel..or how we interpreted it. ….which is based on our hardwired, yet hormonally fluctuating neurochemical responses, formed of course by previous experiences which may or may not have happened..etc….etc…I have basically gleaned from what I’ve read that you are in the city with a wife and child..or children. I didn’t read much, but want to know more. How old are /is your child/ren? What gender and name? What do you do? WHY is your name sunshine? The last time I took lsd was a long time ago..my friend Brad asked how much I wanted….in an offhand way without turning around i said, “whatever you’re having”…that turned out to be an awful lot. Twelve hours later I could actually see enough through the patterns to make out two enormous cats laying on top of me….they were sitting on me as if I were a warm dryer….just purring in time with my vibe…soaking it up, staring intently into my face. Several hours later Brad, Peeyok, and a couple of members of the Sea Hags took me out to the beach on the west side of the Golden Gate bridge. They buried me in the sand for safety and frolicked with dogs.It was two full days at least before i could get on a bus back to the east bay. I truly thought I would never come down….that i had flipped the irreversible switch. My mom asked why I didn’t call her to pick me up when I told her later….I realized I never thought of her as someone who I could depend on for help. I loved her but… That was in the late eighties. Ok, I have to ask again: why is your name Sunshine? Tell me more, Tresca
I wrote you back.
Right… that was me. A melodramatic poseur all the way… faked it until it was real.
Those were the days!
If you’re looking for any party fun from the past, check the bottom of the second to the last page of the book. There’s a link there to a group on tribe.net that I started. Lots of people from the past. I already posted in there about having heard from you.
Wonderful that you are alive, and well, and seem to be thriving!!!!
But of course you are.
: )
Chapter 5 really hit close to the heart for me. I have spent 7 years of my life fighting that monkey on my back. I had a child and that is what made me stop, but the urge is still there and will always be. I love your writing. It may seem dark but it is inspirational if you look deeply into it.
I really enjoyed the “war stories” from the early SF Punk scene.I remember a guy named jake action who used to get every high on huge metal bottles he carried in a truck to shows.The first real high in the punk scene was black beauties and whatever booze was available. I played in punk bands in SJ and went to SF for lot of early shows. The Mab, On Broadway, 10th street hall, the Elite club. It all seemed very agro going into it, but everyone did care for each other. Razors, chains & spikes maybe, but in those days if you fell down on the pit, people helped you up. I think the suburbanation of the scene, the unflux of jock mentality kind of ruined the scene for me. That, and trying Herion. Funny after all these years, I may be playing in a new band with Rockin’ Rick and Johnny Genocide.
GASP! is that you? Don’t ask how I got here but I am glad I did! Lets see if you remember….. I am so clad that somebody took the time and effort to do this…yes oh boy which bathroom was worse? The one at target video or the one at the Mutants????
Jennifer
Jennifer,
baby, i met you in the bathroom at 10th street hall… remember?
Biff, if you need a bass player, or a sound engineer, let me know.
I’d love to see you guys again.
I don’t expect you’ll remember me; I was part of that extended Telegraph scene so long ago and so far away. I was going out with Juliet Harris when I knew you. I discovered your memoir and I’ve been sitting here at work reading and reading, at first (I admit) looking for people and places I knew (not so hard, since that scene wasn’t so big) and then just getting into the whole story and the dead-on descriptions (for a minute there I swear it was 1981 and I was with my girlfriend in the bathroom at the 10th street hall snorting a punk dime of bad meth out of the same bag at the same time with McDonald’s straws). I’m looking forward to enjoying it in its entirety at my leisure. But I’m glad to see the punch line is that you’re happy. And congratulations on your son. I have two kids; Juliet has a really cool son. Who’d have thought we’d all grow up?
Benjie,
I totally remember you. Couldn’t forget your calm, and gentle face.
I agree, it’s bizzarre that we’re alive, and it’s actually pretty fucking cool.
: )
That’s not the way I remember it…..
25 + years is a long time Maudy. what the fuck do I know?
Probably even less than I think…
Nice to see a sign that you’re alive my friend. So nice!
“They just couldn’t keep up with our decline.” Such crisp, clear, elegant writing!
It puts me right back there, only this time with context.
It was different, being a young-and-small-but-tough-enough girl, especially one who initially did the reverse-commute to run away from SF. I wasn’t aware yet that some-somewhat-coherent-one or two or three were sort of watching my back, and neither was Carol, but it turns out I could fight girls just as well as I could fight whichever skinheads were lame enough to pick on me in the first place.
I never quite got the beer-at-the-tennis-courts culture, and was never invited into it – though I imbibed plenty of other things one-on-one with most of the cohort (the gender thing, I’m guessing). It’s great to [read] that Benjie’s doing well. I wonder what became of Corky, of the Speed Queens. And Julie, who apeared one day from Lawrence, KS and who taught me one of life’s toughest lessons, by demonstration. And Vonda, and Summer, and Oliver, and the fabulous Buttfest sisters. Some souls still seem exactly the same, and seeing them on the street kind of sets me in a tailspin: once the jailbaitiest of punk rock jailbait, witnessing that intertia makes me feel so, so old.
Thanks for putting that whole scene in such a clear, shifted perspective.
Jessica,
You have a very nice blog, photoblog, travelog, and biolog yourself. I really appreciate your photos, and the commentary.
I remember Julie from Lawrence Kansas, I actually have a really funny picture of my sneering my head off with her in a headlock. She’s calm, shaved headed and you would think I wasn’t even in the picture.
You didn’t miss anything at the tennis courts. Maybe some of my vomit, and a lot of Johnny Puke’s non stop talking and laughter.
I don’t think it was a gender thing… In those days, the first blossoms of our advanced stages of alcoholism, we were mainly more preoccupied by how much there was to drink, and how frustrating it was that it was never enough.
I’m so glad to see your politics refine and define themselves and that you have embarked upon a journey of productive and insightful revolution beyond self-destruction.
I’m so glad you are alive.
Yes…I’m alive..and well…and so is Nina…You should come and play with us one day!
WOW! I just finished the paperback version last night. The book was riveting, raw, and deeply depressing, but somehow uplifting at the same time, if that makes any sense. I have absolutely no experience with the punk scene whatsoever, so the journey was especially incredible. You book gave me so much to think about. So beautiful to see so much love rise from so much angst and sorrow. We are moving ourselves so time is scarce lately, but I’m excited to see I popped in just in time for the rewrite. Looking forward to getting the chance to check it out.
much love
Hey Fee.
I’m so glad you read the book. You know, after some behind the scenes difficulty with the content of this book I lost momentum. A few people read the book half expecting a history book, or maybe a modern politically correct view of the past, my past. I realized after being accused of sexism and homophobia that I hadn’t put this book together correctly.
I mean to say that you don’t see any insight until you get to the end. How could you? I made every effort to present my state of mind in that moment without any apologies. The idea being that my experience as a punk, with all those people was that of a sociopath, a liar, a broken child with a lot of problems struggling to work it out. And not as a condemnation of punk rock, or society, or anyone else, but rather a kind of a celebration of how punk rock actually saved my life.
How other peope had other points of view, other behavior, but I was almost entirely unaware of them. Unwilling, and unable to hear them, or to learn from them.
A friend of mine is reading the book now, and we talked about it last night. I stayed up late re reading it. I haven’t picked it up in some time. It was good to read it again. I’m not sure where to begin with the re write. But I can see how it needs a complete reworking, and intend to give myself to that project.
Mod is nearly ready for presentation. I may wait to rewrite until all three books are done.
I couldn’t get it to come up on line, so I ordered my own copy. I would rather read it like that anyway.
How come you couldn’t get it to come up? Can you explain exactly what the trouble was? Maybe something’s wrong I’m not aware of…
OK, this is very strange, becaust thismornig, I was able to pull it up, but yesterday said something like “sorry such and such cant be found”
dunnoe
but I am happy to have a copy, or will be rather.
weird…
but what exactly was the problem? like, the page wasn’t found??
yeah, there was nothing except
sorry your document can’t be found
but I found it today.
good!
: )
Wow.
Incredible story.
You have no idea how much I enjoyed reading this, because I really enjoy the punk music/lifestyle and this was just amazing for me.
Is there any chance you’re selling your book in a store like Coles or Chapters or some store like that?
I’d do anything to own this book.
Thank you, so much for this.
I must have more.
Alex, you can buy this book in paperback at lulu press.
For more info follow this link:
http://sunshine-jones.com/inprint/