by Joe Meno
Morrissey, The Smiths
“Punk ain’t no religious cult.
Punk means thinking for yourself”
—“Nazi Punks Fuck Off”
Jello Biafra, The Dead Kennedys
“I ain’t no goddamn sonovabitch.
You better think about it, baby”
—“Where Eagles Dare”
Glenn Danzig, The Misfits
one
The Album That Saved My Life was Walk Among Us by the Misfits. It was thirteen amazing songs with B-movie horror titles that seemed to howl about the very weird disintegration of my own life:
1. 20 Eyes
2.I Turned into a Martian
3.All Hell Breaks Loose
4.Vampira
5.Nike A Go Go
6.Hatebreeders
7.Mommy Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight [Live]
8.Night of the Living Dead
9.Skulls
10.Violent World
11.Devil’s Whorehouse
12.Astro Zombies
13.Braineaters
At that time I was feeling exactly like each song title, as out of place on this earth as a fucking teenager from Mars. I was so angry all the time and looking for a fight, any kind of fight, because I felt so seriously furious for some reason—well, mostly because of my folks always arguing and fucking Catholic school trying to constantly brainwash me and Dorie breaking my heart like that, and, well, every song on that record seemed to be about me feeling just like that: “Prime directive: exterminate the whole human race.” Recently, Gretchen had made a tape of Walk Among Us for me and, like two days later, I went and took a bus to the mall to buy another one of their records, Legacy of Brutality. It was just as good. “Hybrid Moments,” “She,” “Some Kinda Hate,” and the greatest anthem of all, “Where Eagles Dare,” where a young and skinny Glenn Danzig shouted, “I ain’t no goddamn sonovabitch,” which I would mutter to myself all the time, walking alone to school, cruising down the hallway, eyeballing Catholic girls, eating dinner with my zombie family, shaving my head with the electric clippers over the bathroom sink. That record, that one, Walk Among Us, meant everything to me.
OK, I was at the mall, walking past the food court toward the Aladdin’s Castle video-game arcade and killing time until Gretchen came by to pick me up, because, well, I was avoiding being at my house as much as possible since things there were getting much worse, with my dad not coming home for a couple days at a time and my mom becoming more and more crazy until finally, during dinner one night, she smashed a plate over my fucking head and so, well, I decided to spend my Saturdays at the mall and hang out there until Kim got off of work, at which time Gretchen would come pick the both of us up and we would all drive around together, complaining. Good old Mike Madden, who had been my best pal for months, had disappeared, totally. It was all him and Erin McDougal now, Mike and Erin, So Sexy 1991, and when they weren’t having sex, they were busy fighting. I hadn’t seen him in weeks. I mean, school was just about over and it was warm out and girls were everywhere—in the mall, walking down the street—they were like very lovely, strange-looking flowers, and he was practically fucking married to Erin McDougal already.
OK, I had kind of started really listening to punk, at least the Misfits anyway, which happened right after I got my head shaved and Mike and I had stopped hanging out, and that day I was at the mall, flying solo, and I had on my black hoodie, a Misfits “Crimson Ghost” T-shirt, and my dad’s black combat boots. I was done with metal and hard rock, I guess. Why? Because all the kids who were still into metal kind of seemed, well, ignorant to me. All the metal songs were about either fucking girls or worshipping the devil, which was fine and good, but, well, it was all a joke to me now. Without Mike around getting me to listen to Ozzy, I had decided the Misfits would be my band. Why? Well:
1. They didn’t take themselves too seriously. I mean, they sung about old monster movies, but they were cool, kind of gruesome and a little cryptic without being like the wanker new metal bands, who were fake Satanic in order to sell fucking records. They were angry like metal, but kind of fun too, I guess.
2. Their music was the fucking best, kind of like pop from the ’50s but loud, angry, full of references to the Devil and demons and dead celebrities like Marilyn Monroe and John Kennedy, which made you want to sing along. To me this was a big deal: They had songs you could sing along to. Who the fuck can sing along to Ronnie James Dio? Not even Ronnie James Dio.
3. Also, the Misfits had a fucking song, “Braineaters,” in which the chorus was: “Brains for dinner, brains for lunch, brains for breakfast, brains for brunch.” I could not think of anything better than that.
OK, so I had three Misfits T-shirts which were in heavy fucking rotation; that day’s was the Crimson Ghost, a white ghost-skull face, which glowed in the dark. I still had my head shaved and I had a Band Aid above my eye where a piece of the plate my mom had hit me with had cut me badly.
I was just passing the Orange Julius where Kim worked, and she rolled her eyes and held up her watch, tapping it, pretending to check to see if it was still working. I walked beside the rows and rows of plastic blue and yellow tables and chairs, over toward the Chinese Wok food counter, and just then these four dirty-looking metal kids started laughing at me as I walked past. They were your typical stoners, one with a black baseball hat that read “F.T.W.”—which stood for Fuck the World—long brown hair running down his back, some other taller kid in like a black duster climbing like a cloak down to his ankles, a bigger-looking dude with long blond hair in a ponytail who looked stoned, and some other shorter kid with fuzzier, curlier long hair who was wearing a Deicide T-shirt. I kept on walking until the one with the F.T.W baseball hat mouthed the word “faggot” at me, laughing and elbowing his buddies.
I had never really been in a brawl or fistfight before. I mean, in grade school I had, kind of shoving fights mostly. Because I had been so short and tiny, I was like an instant target and everything—especially with my big glasses—all the way up into eighth grade, where high schoolers would, you know, take my stocking cap and toss it back and forth, laughing, then, getting bored, they’d throw it onto the roof of a house, and, well, I guess I never really did anything about it other than cuss them out. But I guess I wasn’t a fucking grade-school kid anymore, you know? I had put on some weight and grown about a foot in the last year and shaved my head, and these dicks, well, they were like these little metal twerps, the kind of kids I knew because, well, I had been just like them. So when I saw him, the kid in the F.T.W. ball cap, laugh and mouth the word “faggot,” I stopped, turned around, walked over to their table where they were finishing up their Burger King or whatever, and just stuck my fucking finger in his motherfucking face, not saying anything, just holding my finger there, grinning, until the kid in the baseball hat kind of leaned back, freaked out, I guess, and was all like, “What? What the fuck?” and I didn’t say anything, I just sat there pointing at him, holding my finger out and nodding. The kid was young, maybe only thirteen, and he had a kind of budding mustache on the top of his lip which wasn’t really coming in, he just probably had never shaved it and was maybe hoping it would be enough to kind of hide his age, also to make him look cool, more mature, I guess. He had a wicked bad case of acne and a monobrow and an upside-down cross earring in his right ear. He was a kid, you know; he could have been me, four years before, fucking ignorant and dumb, scared of not being cool, scared of not fitting in. He really could have been me. That was what I started thinking. And I didn’t like the idea of being made fun of by someone I used to be, some kid who was scared and who wanted to be something, anything, anything but himself. The thing of it was, I was really fucking angry, I was really fucking angry about a lot of things: about my mom and dad, about what happened with Dorie, I was angry Mike had kind of ditched me, and I dunno, I was really feeling very fucking angry, feeling really fucking bad, and didn’t have shit to lose anymore. So, well, I just kept staring at this kid, holding
my finger in his face, nodding, and he kept looking up at me, scared now, seeing I was bigger than him and kind of angry, kind of pissed-off already, and I wasn’t saying anything and, well, he looked like he might start crying and was whispering, “What? What the fuck do you want, man? I’m sorry, OK, I’m fucking sorry,” and so then I just turned and marched off, not looking back, the sounds of the mall hot in my ears, kids complaining, dance music from the record store blaring, the sounds of announcements on the loudspeakers. I kind of felt good and kind of felt like crying, my legs were all shaky and my heart was beating fast. I decided not to go to the video arcade, I would just walk around until I calmed down, and finally I ended up sitting on this carpet-covered mall bench, holding my hands on my knees to steady them.
I sat there for a while, watching the people come and go, looking to see if the four metal kids would walk by. They didn’t. I sat there for a while, counting my change, and then two punk girls, one very short and one kind of chubby, with their punk guy friend who was skinny and young-looking, all of them with bright, dyed hair, the spiked chokers, the plaid skirts, the dude in a Dead Kennedys T, well, they all walked up to me, smiling.
“Here’s a flyer,” the short girl said. She was very tiny, almost like a little kid, with blondish brown hair that had been dyed blue, but kind of poorly. She was wearing a leather jacket and looked all dolled up, with tons of glittery eye shadow and black mascara and everything. She handed me a small yellow photocopied slip of paper. “Do you like 7 Seconds?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said.
“They’re cool,” she said. “They’re playing at the Cubby Bear like in a few weeks.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“Downtown. Not downtown, but by the ballpark,” the guy said, nodding at me.
“Cool,” I said.
“They do a cover of ‘99 Red Balloons,’” the short girl said, nodding excitedly.
“That’s cool,” I said.
“You like the Misfits?” the guy asked. He was taller than me, but kind of skinny, his head shaved up to the top where his hair was like spiked with four different colors.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Earth A.D. is amazing, huh?”
I nodded, not saying anything, because I did not actually, technically own any of their records except Legacy of Brutality. Everything else was on tapes and I did not think I had ever even heard of Earth A.D., which was kind of silly considering how I had decided the Misfits would be my band and everything.
“You into the East Bay sound at all?” the punk kid asked.
“I dunno, some of it is good,” I lied, having no idea what he was talking about.
“Well, Operation Ivy, I mean, they don’t count, you know. They’re more like ska.”
“Yeah,” I said, having no idea what he was saying.
“The Dead Kennedys kick all their asses,” the chubbier girl said. “Jello Biafra is like a fucking genius.”
“I don’t know them,” I said.
“You don’t?” the chubby girl asked. “They are like intelligent, you know, they sing about the government and God and everything.”
“That sounds cool,” I said.
“Hey, maybe if you come to the 7 Seconds show, I’ll make you a tape,” the short girl said with a smile.
“Wow, that would be excellent,” I said, still feeling like I was kind of pretending or something.
“Hey, I really like your boots,” the chubby girl said. “Where did you get them?”
“Yeah, me too,” the short girl said. “They look, like, original.”
“They’re my dad’s,” I said.
“Wow,” the chubby one said. “He lets you wear them?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t know I took them.”
“Cool,” the short girl said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well, maybe we’ll see you later,” the short girl said. “I’m Katie, by the way.”
“Hi,” I said. “Brian,” I added, kind of shaking her hand weakly. “OK, well, maybe I’ll see you there.” She waved goodbye and the three of them walked off, laughing and joking, and I thought of how I had never really been to a punk show before other than in people’s basements and maybe that might be cool to check out, and I would have to ask Gretchen to see if she would go with me, maybe, and if she said yes, I’d even offer to pay for the gas, because I dunno, it seemed very important to me suddenly.
two
OK, overnight I had become punk rock. I mean, I was only listening to the Misfits and, well, also now the Ramones, and I had started wearing my dad’s combat boots all the time, even to school, and no one seemed to notice, and I was sitting in the back of my class—first period, Religion—where Bro. Dorbus just kept yammering and yammering about the value of abstinence, and by mistake I closed my eyes and yawned. Well Bro. Dorbus, who was fairly young, a tall man in shiny gray glasses, grabbed an eraser from the chalkboard and whipped it at my fucking head, hitting me square in the mouth. I started coughing, swallowing yellowish dust, my lips stinging, and he came up and hovered over me and said, “This isn’t your bedroom, Mr. Oswald, is it?” like the fucking thought had just occurred to the fucking prick, and without thinking—honestly, without hesitation—I just looked up and said, “Masturbate me,” which was from the Misfits song “Bullet,” in which Glenn Danzig sang, “All the people in the party, masturbate me.” I had no idea what it really meant, but I liked that he said it and so, well, that got me sent straight to the Dean of Discipline.
OK, so I was sitting in the narrow blue hallway outside the Dean’s office and this kid I knew from my Chemistry class, Nick, this tall, skinny guy with a shaved head, slunk down the hall and took a seat beside me, holding the same blue detention note in his hand. He was wearing a pair of those cheap X-ray glasses, the kind you get in the back of a comic book. He took the X-ray specs off, folded them up, put them into his front shirt pocket, and then looked around the office. There was a gold pen lying on the corner of the receptionist’s desk. He nodded, noticing the receptionist wasn’t around, and grabbed the pen, slipping it up his sleeve. I kind of smiled, looking at him. He had a long face and pointy ears like a bat and he was smiling a kind of crazy fake smile, staring straight ahead. Then he kind of looked me over, rubbed his nose, caught sight of my Fiend Club button which was pinned to my belt, and nodded. “Misfits?” he asked me, pointing at the small black-and-white Crimson Ghost button, the only button I owned.
Even sitting down he was real tall, taller than I had noticed before, and he was wearing combat boots too. His head was shaved very short all along the sides up to the middle where he had a few long strands of hair which hung down in his face. It was a Devil-lock, how Glenn Danzig wore his hair. I hadn’t ever noticed it on him before.
“They’re my favorite band,” I said, nodding and meaning it.
“Me too,” he said, smiling. He pointed to the same button under the collar of his dress shirt.
“Cool,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Well, are you like into the East Bay sound at all?” I asked, being nervous, trying to remember what the one kid in the mall had asked me. “Like, um, Operation Ivy?”
“Yeah, they’re cool,” he said, nodding. “It’s like ska but more punk.”
“Yeah, I like them but I don’t have any of their stuff,” I said.
“It’s pretty cool. I got most of it on vinyl.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “Cool.”
“So you going to that 7 Seconds show?” I asked—again, trying to think of whatever those punk kids in the mall had said to me.
“Yeah, I dunno. I’d like to, but I don’t know if I have enough cash.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I said. “I heard it was supposed to be good.”
“Yeah, their last record was fucking great.”
“Yeah,” I said, lying, having no idea. “It was pretty good.”
“You skate at all?”
“Skate? You mean skateboard?”
He nodded.
“Yeah, I’m OK.”
“Cool,” he said. “Maybe we can skate somewhere sometime.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’d be cool.”
“Well, I got to get to class. You know, take it easy,” he said, and then he crinkled up the detention slip and just started walking off.
“You’re just gonna walk away?”
“Yeah. I just got thrown out of Spanish so I wouldn’t have to, like, take this test.”
“Cool.”
“Later.”
“Later,” I said and stood up, crinkling up my own blue slip of paper. Something made me start smiling for some reason. I was like this whole new person, not just because of my hair and clothes and not just because of the music I was listening to—people around me were treating me different, some people just coming up and talking to me for no reason. It was kind of fucking weird, you know, how I hadn’t ever noticed it before, that it was all about how you fucking looked. I started to walk away when Bro. Cardy’s office door opened and he waved me in, nodding, “What a surprise, Mr. Oswald, come in, come in.”
Bro. Cardy grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me past his desk into the small chair. “Why do you keep being sent here?” he asked, taking a seat and folding his long gray hands together atop his desk. His face looked plain and old like a statue sitting in the sunlight there, a white face atop a dark slate uniform. “What is the problem this time?”
I said what I had to say, which was, “We are 138,” from the song “We are 138” by the Misfits again, and I didn’t know what 138 we were, but I still said it—“We are 138”—and that was just about the moment Bro. Cardy sighed very heavily and wrote me two Saturday detentions, signing them and handing them to me, shaking his old head and frowning.
As I was walking down the hallway at school a few hours later, I caught sight of Rod, who I hadn’t seen in months because he was in all honors classes now, having decided maybe it was safer with all nerds around him all day. He looked skinnier, more nervous than ever, his eyes darting around the hall for possible attack from any corner. He was walking down the hall and had his head down, peering out of the sides of his eyes, and I stopped him and asked, “Rod, what’s up?” and he shook his head.
