PUNK: Lonesome American Memoirs
6: Shaddup-a you face!
Some people took me out to eat. I was hungry. It had been a while since I’d actually eaten a meal of any kind. So I was quiet, and happy to be in the little Italian restaurant.
The tables were spread with those red and white checked plastic tablecloths, a water glass full of breadsticks, and a mesh covered wine bottle with a white candle in the top. The waiters were older, traditional, sporting the red cotton aprons, and white shirts, with slicked back hair. They treated us with calm courtesy, despite our vile appearance. It was really nice.
Everyone was mellow from the red wine, when Maude ordered it they asked for her ID, but not anyone else, so we all got to get a little buzz on while we scarfed the bread sticks, and looked over the tri-fold plastic coated menus.
I did my famous get quiet and feel sorry for myself because I don’t have any money but I’m fucking starving routine. Where I wait until everyone has announced what they are going to eat, Maude was getting veal, so was Thayne, Maude’s best friend was getting spaghetti with meat balls, and Juliet and Catherine decided to split a plate of linguini.
Then I say a little too loud something like “How much do you think a small salad is going to cost?”
And if that doesn’t spark the right fire I’d say, “Do you think they’ll let me just sit here and eat bread sticks?”
Then if there’s a mention of a per person minimum on the menu (happily pointed out to me wherever appropriate) I’d make like I was getting up, and fully prepared to meet everyone outside after they were don eating.
Someone usually said something like “What’s the matter, don’t have enough money?”
I’d look down and say something like “It’s cool. I’ll just meet you after.”
And Maude, or some other person with a job and a soft spot for me would say, “How much do you need?”
But I’d pretend not to hear, and start grabbing my shit.
Eventually someone would come through and just say it “I’ll buy you something, sit down.” Which I never had any trouble hearing.
So we’re punk, and we’re drunk, and we’re eating for free at this cozy little place, and everything’s going just fine. I’m making quite a bit more time with Maude than I’d thought I’d be able to do after we got together a few months earlier.
I was totally into her, and we’d been hanging out for a few days. I finally got her to let me stay at her place, and she actually said out loud that she knew she was going to regret it. I laughed. We ate all her food, drank all her booze, and then lay in bed together smoking. I started to make out with her, and softly feel around on her when she gets up and says “I gotta pee.”
The idea that women urinated and took dumps always ruined everything for me. Like a pretty friend who can’t stop talking about her period or her cramps. Just took the magic right out of the room. So the heat was off.
Then I went to go down on her, my only real skill as a junkie lover, and she firmly pulled me back up to her chest and said “No, no no…”
I was really confused. So I actually asked her “Why not?”
She paused for a second, exhaled sharply and said, “Because I know you don’t want a mouth full of contraceptive jelly.”
She seemed really frustrated with me. Short. Like I’d really blown it. So I agreed that I didn’t want a mouth full of that, and just kinda cuddled with her and went to sleep.
We hadn’t spoken since. Although we had spent some time together with other people around. Gone to a couple shows. Just regular hanging around. And tonight she was talking to me. Looking at me. I was glad.
Then this song comes on the fifties style stainless steel juke box where the guy plays the accordion and sings “What’s-a-matta you? It’s-a-not so bad, It’s-a-nice-a-place, So, shaddap-a-you face!” And no one could believe it.
So I throw a few quarters into the machine and set it to play over and over and we all start singing along to it. The restaurant lit right up. Everyone was singing along. It was as if we all felt a sense of communion in the warm glow of an immigrant’s tale of coming to America and being slapped around by his a-mamma.
The good cheer and brotherhood seemed to flow on tap, and drizzle out of the olive oil bottles onto the floor. We were swimming in it, there were barrels of it, and plenty to spare.
One woman, a slight, mousey, librarian of a lady in a Romanian peasant’s blouse and dog hair maxi got up onto the table top and began a rousing can-can routine. Everyone cheered their heads off. The waiters roared through the room with fresh white cloths swinging over their arms pouring free wine for everyone. The manager, a perfectly round man without a neck or a waist, and a bristling mitt of hair on his head, burst out with an operatic baritone which drove the three dozen guests into a euphoric frenzy of Italian delights.
Of course that’s a lie. But I tell you, if there were any justice in the world that’s exactly how it woulda been.
In some places the drunken restaurant sing-a-long is tradition. I’ve seen it happen spontaneously all over the UK, or anywhere British people go on holiday, but not in Berkeley. In fact, it you might risk your personal safety (or at least your reputation) by singing anything out loud, anywhere, at any time. Unless, of course, you are an isolated, and delicate flower of an art student, with a slightly too thick of a hair braid, and look just a little wrong in your beige body suit and clogs. Maybe then you’d get away with it. But probably only if you’re singing some folksy type tune that no one knows.
I remember standing in the import isle of Odyssey Records, they’d been playing the Negative Trend track off of the ‘Tooth and Nail’ compilation, and this fucking hippy lady in a leotard and pleated denim skirt just walks behind the counter and turns it off. That was bad. Really bad. But what made it the worst was that she put on some stupid fucking feel-good earth brother music where the singer is singing about “jammin’.” Fuck I was pissed.
Then she starts singing along. “I wanna’ jammin’ with you…”
Jesus fucked a money’s ass. Shit. It was like someone lit my head on fire. I just didn’t know what to do. I had a half a fountain coke, a knife, a loose chain and I was on fire. I walked up to the counter and just stared at this lady. She had her goddamn eyes closed and was doing that lame hippie dance where you stand in one place and flop your arms around all limp. Fuck I hated this lady.
So when I realized that I was not going to be able to burn a hole into her with my mind, I said “Hey hippie!”
But she didn’t stop her hairy-legged gyrations.
So I said, “Excuse me!”
But nothing happened. I was fiddling around with the crap in my pockets, trying to figure out what I could throw at her, when some other guy came up to me and asked “Is there something I can help you with?”
He was one of those ‘eight is enough’ looking guys. Like the sort of dude that might perform best with a glass of milk, sitting under an apple tree. But he was also sort of big. So I said “no… Forget it.” and sloped out of the store and stood outside for a while. Eventually I just left.
Back at the restaurant, what really happened was that I liked the ‘What’s-a-madda-you’ song a lot. Especially the spoken riffs as the song faded out where the singer says, “Ay! What’s-a-madda-you, eh? You shaddap-a-you face and eat you s’getti like a good boy, anh?” That part really killed me. But by the fourth play through, the staff had had enough of my annoying little tricks and unplugged the jukebox.
I was angry about it, but my companions glared at me, and so I didn’t get up and plug it back in like I’d intuitively thought to do. So I pouted instead. Didn’t say thank you to Maude for buying my some spaghetti, and stole the tip off the table.
The plan that night was to go to some show at the Savoy Tivoli. The Young Marble Giants were playing, and I really wanted to go. But when we got over there nothing was happening. The place was closed. It was only 11 or so, and we hung around. Eventually it seemed like it was off. So we cruised around the city in Maude’s car.
She had a pale grey mustang, hardtop. It had a nice back seat. You could just sit back there, all slung low, and peek out the windows. It was a nice ride.
I hadn’t been able to get that song out of my head. So I was shouting “Ay! What’s-a-matta-you?” at people out the window. At first everyone thought it was funny. Some of them joined me. We’d shout it together at a stoplight, and then peel out and roar through the intersection, laughing. Great fun.
As the night started to get old, we headed back up Market Street toward the bridge. We were stopped across the street from Zim’s, and I spotted these three guys with shower caps on in the cross walk.
I said, “Check out those guys in the shower caps!” But no one seemed to mind them.
So I rolled down the window, stuck my head out and shouted “Ay! What’s-a-matta you? You shaddap-a-you face an eat you s’getti like a good boys!” complete with the Italian hand gesture. Everyone in the car busted up laughing.
Then the guys bolted across the street toward the car. The general consensus was “Oh shit!” Everyone started rolling up their windows. The three lowriders reached my window, as it was just about half way up. A short, stubby hand reached in the window and grabbed at me. Juliet started smacking at the hand, and then pounding it, trying to get it to let go. I just kept rolling up the window. The light turned green, and Maude roars the mustang into the intersection. But the guy hangs on to the window, and slings his leg up onto the back of the car.
Maude starts shouting “God dammit you fucker!” She meant me. “This is the last fucking time you are going to get me into trouble so fucking help me you son of a bitch, cock sucker, fuck!”
I was hurt, frightened and thinking “What did I do? Shit this ass hole is hanging on the roof of the car shouting in Spanish! Fuck.” but I didn’t say anything. I just sat there watching this guy in the shower cap freaking the fuck out with his hand stuck in the window, kicking at the trunk and shouting.
We came to a stoplight, and Maude’s friend starts shouting “Roll the fucking window down! Roll the fucking window down!” And I was like “No way dude.” And so she reaches back and starts reaching for the handle herself. I stopped her, and said it again “Dude, no fucking way!”
She looked into my eyes with a mixture of terror and hatred and says, “Roll the goddamn window down now!”
So I rolled it down, just a crack. The hand sliped out of the window, and the lowrider fell off the car and rolled into the street. Everyone turned around and looked out the back window to see if he was ok. He got up. He was fine. He fliped us off.
Soon we were laughing, retelling the story. Making fun of each other for how scared we looked while it was happening. Every thing’s ok.
Back in Berkeley, it’s decided that they are going to drop me off first. I asked Maude if I could sleep at her house, and she laughs and says “Oh honey…” And my spirits rose a little “I got everything I needed from you already.” And my spirits fall. I didn’t understand what she meant. But I knew I wasn’t gonna be sleeping over.
I looked around the car. I’d told Juliet I was gay when she tried to be my girlfriend, so she was out. Catherine was only 11, and while that wasn’t beneath me, she was Juliet’s sister, so that was out. Maude had said no, and her friend and I had already done it in the back of a Marin City bus, a year or so ago, and I knew she hated me. So I said “Just drop me off at Barrington.”
Without a word, the car made a couple of right turns and we headed down the side streets of Berkeley and made our way toward the campus. At a stop light somewhere around Channing Way and Telegraph I see this flat top guy looking at me from his car window. It’s begun to rain, and this guy is really looking at me. Offended, I roll down the window and say “Shatupp-a-you face an’ eat you s’getti like a good boy!” I didn’t yell. I just said it. And rolled the window back up.
When the red and blue lights went on I was completely shocked. Everyone was. Maude’s friend glared at me again and said “You fucking idiot!. Turned out that the flat top guy had been driving a police car, turned out the registration on the car was expired, turned out the cop was really a dick.
After the cop ran the plates, the registration, the license, and asked us all to get out of the car and put out hands on the hood, with our legs apart he says to me from behind “Now what was that you said to me?”
I said, “It’s from a song.”
“What is?”
“It’s from the song at the restaurant.”
“What’s from the song at the restaurant?”
“Eat your spaghetti like a good boy.”
“What?”
“Eat your s’getti like a good boy.”
“I’ve never heard that one.”
He walks back to Maude and her friend and says, “Tell your friend he’s got a big mouth. And he cost you your drivers license and your vehicle.”
Maude starts to cry. Her car got impounded. She lost her license, and I lost at least two friends.
Next time I saw Maude was about fifteen years later. She was nice. It was good to see her. She looked great. I was still sorry.
Next time I saw that cop was about two weeks later. I was pissed off at someone for something and I was kicking a newspaper dispenser. Three US Police cars pulled up and the cuffed me, and talked things over with me.
“You seem to have an issue with public property son.” Says the cop with the big handlebar mustache.
“No sir.”
“Then what’s your problem?” Says flat top cop.
“I was upset sir.”
“Wait a minute… I know you.”
Oh fuck.
“You’re spaghetti and meatball boy. I remember you.”
“You know this kid?” Says mustache cop.
Flat top cop retells the story to mustache cop. They laugh it up.
I’m so fucked.
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/