Posts Tagged ‘Humor’

Your Punk Rock Friends

Friday, July 2nd, 2004

Current Listening: Swingin’ Udders — “Next in Line” (Fat Music Vol. 3: Physical Fatness)
freedom’s the only thing you need but the truth is something few understand and an unwelcome reality now it’s dark and black and sad and gone you express and repress the thing gone wrong

I just got an e-mail about my article on the Nerds With Instruments website, Dave’s Ten Punk Tips. This letter was of course filled with hatred because they thought I ‘didn’t get it.’ If the person had actually read the essay, he might have found that I was being sarcastic. So far, I’ve gotten about 15 hate-mails, and 1 message from someone who ‘got it.’

So, being the punk expert I am, I have decided to create a guide to punk rockers. As always, send comments to nirvanasongs @!

The Old-School Punker

hardcoahicuh imbelisus

The epitome of punk rock. No job, no respect for authority, can barely speak without drooling over everything. These guys hate everything. Unemployment, employment, the government, anarchy, everything. The only discernable skills they have are the ability to sneer for hours on end. They only go to shows to say how terrible punk rock has become. They don’t own any records released after 1985. If a band signs to a label that most people have never heard of (i.e., Epitaph, Fat Wreck Chords, Hopeless), then they immediately hate the band, even if they were its bigger fan before.

The Hot Topic Punk

gothicus lame

Covered in tattoos, piercings, and eye shadow, these punks live a twisted, troubled life. Mainly from the ass-whoopings they receive at the hands of the Old-School Punkers. These punks have a lot in common with typical goths, except that their self-hatred is only feigned. See, some goth found out a long time ago that girls with low self-esteem and scars on their wrists would sleep with him if he acted depressed and deep, too. Now, goths really feel that way, but the Hot Topic Punk only feels that way when he sleeps with one of the said goth girls and finds out that he got some new, interesting, collectible venereal disease.

Whereas Goths are generally sincere, this species really couldn’t give a damn. They listen to AFI, in an effort to look cool. When asked why they like that type of music, they generally reply, ‘because it’s so deep.’

The Skinhead

docmartenicus humongicus

Never weighing less than 300 pounds (all muscle), these punks are the behemoths of their class. Contrary to popular belief, not all skinheads are white power idiots – most of them are just idiots. They bray on and on about being working class, despite the fact that the bands they listen to generally stay in four-star hotels and only interact with the working class when they want a Big Mac. These guys don’t consider a mosh pit to be cool unless bones are breaking and blood is flowing.

The Emo Brat

cryingabouteverything withtheirstupidglassesola

This species orginated when the thin, whiny kids who used to hang out with the jocks realized they couldn’t get any because they did not run around like big idiots and try to ‘score’ with big, muscular men. So they decided that they would become introverts and cry about everything.

Whereas the Hot Topic Punk at least is willing to pierce himself to get laid, the Emo Brat only puts on stupid, thick-framed emo glasses. Their haircuts, moussed and sometimes spike, are vestiges of their jock heritage. They spend most of their time on weblogs, writing about how their (often) imaginary girlfriend just dumped them and writing stupid, stupid poetry about it. They like to wear workshirts too and bray about how they’re ‘so totally individual’, despite the fact that every one of them listens to Thursday, Thrice, and other such bands with stupid names.

These punks often keep journals about their suffering, and whine about never getting jobs, despite the fact that they refuse to work a day in their lives. Most are in college, and try to justify their bad grades with excuses ‘depression.’ But they’re not fooling anybody.

High School Punks

punkrockus knowitallis

The worst of the lot. These kids are whiny, know-it-alls, and trendy as hell. Their lyrics are sophomoric, trite, and often about girls. They play shows with their screaming high school friends and record demos with money that their mommies and daddies gave them. They often get expensive guitars and Marshall stacks as birthday presents, and if not they can afford to buy them because they don’t have real expenses, like rent/car payments.

Fortunately, this is a short-lived species. After about two years, they realize how stupid and idealistic they were, and either give up music for real work or turn into a crusty Old-School Punk.

Remember, nobody is as punk as me, nobody.

Questions, comments, disagree? E-mail:

Like Mom & Dad

Monday, September 1st, 2003

I finally figured out what’s been happening to my parents these last few years. It hit me on Friday. I was playing at the KidsFirst Poetry Slam™. The plan ran thusly: first I would play a solo acoustic set, then guitar with Chris, Tim and Shawn, then I would play with the Flying Men of Zimbabwe. I tried to tell my dad this.

“So just one band is playing?”

“No, three bands, and I’m in all of them.”

“So you and the Zimbabweans are playing together, right?”

Then my mom cut in. “No, there are three different bands, and he’s playing in each of them.”

It was at this moment, when my mom explained what I was saying to my dad, that I realized my parent’s metamorphosis. They’re turning into my grandparents. It started happening so slowly I never noticed. First, my dad’s eyesight started going. Then his hearing. He would mishear things, then my mom would reiterate them. This is what my grandpa and grandma used to do all the time. My grandpa usually couldn’t follow movies without a running explaination from my grandma. It was a typical old person thing: the wife would explain to her not-listening husband.

My parents are doing this more and more often. It’s starting to freak me out. How long until my dad changes his wardrobe to just jumpsuits? How long until he starts slathering mayonnaise on everything, including cereal? How long until my mom starts clipping every coupon in the paper?

It’s awful, because they are slowly losing their ability to function as normal adults. Granted, the change will take years, but it’s happening. My parents are becoming my grandparents. And you know the scary thing?

That means I’m becoming like my parents.


My Pet Spider

Thursday, July 3rd, 2003

The Leage of Extraordinairy Gentlemen looks to be a good flick. Anything with Sean “My Last Name Should Be the Final Word of a Spelling Bee” Connery is generally popcorn-worthy.

I’ve got a pet spider. Kind of. I first noticed him a week ago while I was eating lunch out of the back of Nellie. He was a big guy. Anyway, I had to tip the seats down so I could sit comfortably out of the back of the station wagon. As I was doing this, he scurried underneath the seat. At first I thought he would be pissed about his forced relocation, but I think he enjoys it.

Plus, he moved elsewhere of his own volition. Twice I’ve seen him scurrying behind the dashboard glass. I call him Norton, after Gleasom’s foil in The Honeymooners. Norton enjoys it in the car, I think. Can you imagine life forever on the road? There’s plenty of food, both in the form of candy that’s been in the ashtray for longer than my siblings have been alive to the many foolish dead insects who, in an attempt to get at that very candy, climb into the car through a window crack. Within seconds of being inside Nellie they are baked to a crisp. Norton doesn’t even have to cook.

In fact, I think he likes living in my dashboard so much that he’s been trying to ‘help out’ Nellie. I fancy that the kindly arachnid rolls back my odometer every once in a while. This is partly out of kindness to his more-than-benevolent master, but mostly because he wants said master to hold onto Nellie, lest he be sold to an oppressive overload who has an air freshener or — much worse — a bug bomb in his arsenal.

Today I got cut off in Hamilton. Norton was riding on the dashboard. I’m not sure because he’s tiny, but I think that a few of his eight legs were giving the finger.

In other news, tomorrow is the day of the river float. It looks like it’ll be pretty fun, assuming the weather holds. We’re floating from Woodside to Bell Crossing, about fifteen miles. I know for a fact that John, Shawn, Aaron, myself, and Laurel are going. There’s specualtion about whether Jillian, Meredith, Meghan, and I think Kelly are going. I have no friggin’ clue. John went to Helena today, and he’s not the best at organizing things, if you catch my drift. He’s a scatterbrain, alright?

I had a heavenly salad for lunch. Lettuce (duh!), olives, onions, cucumbers, two types of cheese — the list goes on and on! It filled me up so much that I could barely finish dinner.

I also got food for tomorrow. A thing of Coke, strawberries, grapes, Ritz, cheese (pepper jack!), hummus, and Teddy Grahams. It should be a yummy repast/snack.

Now I should go to bed. I have to get up at eight to shower and crap. I have to pick up Aaron at nine, stop by Shawn’s to see what he has in the way of river-worthy craft, and phone Laurel to make sure she actually gets up.


Friday, June 20th, 2003

Kind of like this, but less terrifying

A dead mouse. That was why I was awakened this morning (after — thank you!– having been up very late) earlier than usual. Because my sister was feeding the cat (Boo) and dog (Cisco). She dug down into our outdoor ‘food container’ (just a black garbage bin-type thing with a lid). She says she thought she saw some duct tape and picked it up. And it was a dead and mummifying mouse! She screamed, I woke up, and was grumpy. Guess who had to dispose of it too, me being the only ‘man’ in the house?

So I chilled at Kyle’s again last night. Lots of people there at the height of the night. Shawn picked up a bottle of rum for me, so I wasn’t without my spirits! I saw Loren and Chase and Keith — basically all the guys from my class who went to UM this year. Shawn played Waterfall with six girls and of course all the rules he made up involved people licking him. Needless to say, when your only booze is rum you don’t play Waterfall unless you really hate your liver.

Current Listening:
Radiohead: “Backdrifts”
We’re rotten fruit
We’re damaged goods
What the hell
We got nothing left to lose

But that was not the only substance abuse to partake in! Kyle had some big fat Cuban cigars, and Shawn and I shared one on the porch. I’m not much of a tobacco fan, but the lure of puffing on a stoagie was too much. I eventually got to the point where it didn’t feel like every puff was a semi slamming into my chest. I do not, however, think I will start smoking. It’s expensive and, well, pretty gross.

It was Jordan’s good-bye party. We’re gonna miss him. It seems like everybody is leaving (imagine that!). Jordan. Carl went already. At least most of my good friends are heading up to Missoula next year.

Marry Me, Sabrina Lloyd!

Sunday, June 15th, 2003

Marry me, Sabrina Lloyd, and we can celebrate our shared birthday together

So ends another weekend. I’m watching the Dilbert cartoon right now on Comedy Central. They’re like K-Mart for expired TV shows which have only six episodes: The Critic, the aforementioned Dilbert, Clerks, Undergrads. Plus, Sports Night is on later tonight. As we all should know, Sports Night features the fabulously pretty Sabrina Lloyd as Natalie. Coincidentally, the actress has the same birthday as me — November 20. That show was really, really good; I think it’s the only comedy ever to not have a laugh track. Too bad it got canned.

I went to K-Mart to get my Father’s Day present today: a 50-pack of CD-R’s. I also picked up the deal of the century. It was a greatest hits compilation from Little Richard. Only $5.00! “Keep a Knockin'” is an awesome song, as is “Rip It Up” — a tune The Queers cover. I also got some CD-R’s for myself, since I ran out last month. The final purchase I made was a new portable CD player for the car. For those readers who do not know, here is a history of music and my driving:

November 1999 I get my license. For my birthday my parents give me a personal CD player.

March 2000 I hook my CD player up to a device which broadcasts to the radio in the car. The sound is okay, but crummy — Nellie’s speakers are tinny at best. This almost exactly coincides with my purchase of No Substance by Bad Religion.

October 2000 I hook up a power amp to the line output of the CD player and the radio broadcast thingie to the headphone output. I connect a speaker box to the power amp.

Current Listening:
Screeching Weasel: “Falling Apart”
If I smile outside and roll back my eyes
And shake hands do you know what?
I can’t even tell that I’m
Not even welcome in the town where I grew up
‘Cause I’m in my own world
And you’re not a part of it
I’m in my own world
And it’s falling apart

The system sounds better, but is jury-rigged and prone to falling apart.

July 2001 In a freak accident, I put a guy’s trailer hitch through my radiator grille (but not the radiator) on Main Street in Hamilton. This happened, by the way, because I was fidgiting with the sound system and the brakes in Nellie suck.

November 2001 My parents give me an in-dash CD player for my birthday, as well as new speakers for Nellie. For the first time, music in the car is easy and sounds good.

November 2002 The CD player starts going on the fritz.

May 2003 I hook up the previous portable Discman to the line input on my dashboard CD player. It sounds good, but my music listening is once again battery powered.

May 25 2003 Tiny Gremlins or demons infiltrate the CD player and it refuses to play CD-R’s.

June 5 2003 All CDs, regardless of their origin, stop working in the portable player except The Queers’ Pleasant Screams.

So I got a new one for $25. It plays CD-R’s!