Tales of a Punk Rock Nothing

by Abram Shalom Himelstein

  Please Leave Comments, suggestions, ideas, requests, jokes, band recommendations, questions and personal ads. Can you guys order the Wallahackacama Sound Machine “Destroy Malignant Manifestation” 7” on Exhume records?

  Thanks for letting us spend the night. Thanks for the grub…You guys gotta do something about those rats, they’re gonna take over the whole building soon.

  -Actomatics

  Hey is it okay if Wigwam Warriors play here on December 7th? They called and asked for a show (gas money donation)?

  -Jessica

  I’m sick of bands playing here, it would be nice if some more people would help clean up afterwards, or maybe clear it with all the people who live here. Are Wigwam Warriors all boys? I’m sick of boy bands. Also-what’s up with that name?

  -Rebecca

  Look, we accept pretty much every non-offensive band that we can accommodate. We didn’t choose for them to be all boys.

  -Tomothy

  Who blamed you? What’s up with being defensive, white boy?

  -Paula and Marian

  Whatever, quit bitching, start your own group. DIY means Y and not W for whining.

  -Another White Boy

  Fuck you, pig. Thanks for trying (for the millionth time in our lives) to silence our voices. Just because you admit that you’re a white boy doesn’t mean that you have to act like one.

  -Paula and Marian

  ACT-UP’S DIE-IN ON THE CAPITOL ON FRIDAY!

  BRING A TOMBSTONE.

  Boy this is a discussion that will enlighten and edify all who read. I’m so glad that it’s recorded… Good food, good meat substitute. That I’m thankful I can not refute. Thanks for the hospitality and floor space (some of the most comfortable concrete I’ve ever slept upon)

  -Attica 4

  What’s up with kids coming to the store being so rude to the neighbors? Maybe we should put up signs that say something like, “Don’t be a dick to our neighbors.”

  -Elliot

  What do you mean “being rude?” Can you give an example?

  -Jessica

  When we had that 25Bonker show last week, some man was trying to ask for directions to the metro, and the kids here would not even tell him. When he came in, everyone is acting tense and quiet, like they thought he would rob us with arms. Perhaps we should have some workshops on racism.

  -Inga

  I don’t think that workshops would really do anything, since the white hardcore kids from the suburbs will only come here to see bands and buy records/zines. But still we need to say something at every show.

  -Matt

  What can we say? I feel like the issue is more complicated than just people being rude. We live in a store, it’s open to the public, and we can’t really control who comes in, and as long as we are affiliated with punk stuff, it’s going to be mostly white kids with money from the burbs, not anyone from this neighborhood. Our presence (as white, young folks with cash) is already detrimental to this neighborhood being for the people who are already here. We make other whites feel comfortable moving here, helping to raise rent, we support businesses which cater to our culture (the natural foods store) and the whites who move in on our cue are not going to have a problem calling the cops to protect their property, in fact we might not have a problem with that…

  -Elliot

  What are you advocating, segregation? If Black people were moving into an all white neighborhood in the suburbs, you’d be all for it.

  -Frank

  We could try to sell more soul and rap records to appeal more to the people who already live in the area.

  -Tomothy

  GENERAL NEST MEETING NEXT WEDNESDAY, 8PM

  COME EARLY TO WRITE LETTERS ON BEHALF OF

  DEATH ROW PRISONERS

  Hey, thanks for letting us stay here. Thought we’d put in our two cents: Why don’t you guys spend your money renting a place that doesn’t have rats? This joint is a dump! Is it that important for you to live in this neighborhood? Fuck being rude, you guys are getting ripped off. For less money you can get a bigger and better space, and not be “ruining” the neighborhood, except in the ways that the burbs need to be ruined. Also, Wigwam Warriors are all boys. They sound like the Smiths trying to be spirit of ’76 , which is unpleasant.

  -Guys from Chicago

  Yeah, but I thought we came to save the masses from poverty and despair through revolution.

  -Anonymous Smartass

  Hey, what do you guys think about having a separate book for people who live here and are part of the collective and another book for people passing through? It seems like we need to be able to talk about stuff without hearing about the rats and whatever else.

  -Tomothy

  Hmmmm… and we thought that you guys were going for inclusiveness… Oh well, it isn’t the first time that white men have lied about their intentions… Seems like you’re trying to shut our voices up, especially since we say what all the grrrls in this collective think, but know that they have to share space with you.

  -Paula and Marian

  Accidentally stole this book. Oh, well. Property is theft right?

  A new writing journal, with a preface about why I must exile myself from the world of the collective punkrock book & record store/ house/ soapbox. Sometimes I want to say “Shhh, don’t interupt,” but how we decide is at least as important (in this project) as what we decide. Question is how to deal with that interruption, without making people feel inferior or silenced, and still get things done, not be hijacked by the insane making irrelevant points with the fervor of preachers.

  In the end, our presence is more disruptive than productive (or maybe unnoticed) for people who live here, even if we have managed to sell a few copies of Blood In My Eye at low cost.

  Paula disagrees: “We’re not gentrifiers, we’re strippers.”

  “G Force”

  When the spaceship landed

  The aliens said, “Be cool

  We haven’t come to colonize you,

  We’ve come to build a movement.

  We were chased from our homes by businessmen

  We had to get out, get out or go to school.”

  Pretty soon the aliens’ cousins arrived and said, “Hey, we like this food!”

  Then the shopping malls appeared.

  The aliens, they vanished, without collecting their security deposits

  But their cousins stuck around and ate “authentic” food.

  Tomorrow Jordana, Kate, Sam and I sign the lease on a house in Mount Pleasant. It’s already gentrified there. So me and my status quoian self can feel all safe.

  New house. Big, hardwood floors, attic, basement for practice, no rats.

  Still depressed. New house is better and all, but not the all better that I was hoping for. Wish that there were magic words that would make everything pretty. Or at least a plan that I was a part of that had a chance of making everything right:

  First we’ll take the television stations, just one. Cable. We won’t even broadcast views, just random shots, twenty seconds of footage from every life in America. The rich houses, the shitty jobs, the boring minutes of school, the rotting garbage in poor parts of town, the sad people in ugly places, the sad people in glitzy places, homeless people, twenty seconds of two million people in jail, twenty seconds of people at work making things uglier.

  Yeah, and then everyone will rise with millions of voices, take to the streets, demanding that good things happen and bad things stop. And they’ll all be grateful that we took over ESPN to show the images. And we’ll be revolutionary heroes.

  Ah, there are so many ways to really make the world pretty. I mean in this democracy, land of the free, surely, it’s gonna change soon. I could just run for president and then probably win, and then I can make it right. Oh, or a really good record that says what I’m thinking. If I just tell everyone about the fucked-up things I see, then everyone will care and want to change things. If I just yell real loud that the schools that my students go to suck
, that they’re falling down and full of shitty teachers who don’t care, then when people hear, they’ll drop what they’re doing and get right to work to make things good and fair for all kids.

  Colin and Nora on the way back from a Baltimore wedding. (Of people my age!) They’re staying with Nora’s friend. Nora seems nice and smart although we don’t have much in common. I guess that Colin and I only have Wilson in common. She’s doing a paper on U. S. Mexican relations and the sex-trade and wanted to check out an American strip bar. She hadn’t been and thought that she needed to for the paper. (Neither had I. Colin didn’t say if he had or not.) Stupidly I mentioned King’s Castle, and then we were going. Colin and I walked, but Nora was late. Started to rain, we went inside.

  Saw Angie on stage inside, and waved to her. (What’s a “feminist” boy to do in this situation?Which kind of wave? A “Hey, how’s it going,” while her legs are spread wide with some guys face inches from…) We sat down. Total freak-out mode. Watched a hockey game I didn’t care about on a TV behind the bar.

  Two stages, and women who’d just finished dancing were walking around saying, “Thanks for watching.” The women on both stages were naked except for their shoes and a garter, with their legs spread apart. Each one had a thirty year-old man’s nose about two inches from her vagina. The men would look for about 30 seconds, then insert a bill in the garter.

  Couldn’t deal. We went outside to wait in the rain. When Nora got there we went to Burrito Bros, then headed to Dupont Circle. Told them I didn’t want to go back, but didn’t care if they went. And then they did. And then I walked home. The end.

  A real man now.

  The best answering machine message ever:

  Tim Chrompson (not just a rock star, but also our next door neighbor) in the voice of the Godfather:

  “You guys should be extremely careful who you talk shit about.”

  Guess Tri-State Transmitter wants to play El Pollo Negro.

  “I heard that Sam told Tomothy that Muffy said that he wasn’t going to be able to repeat what Biff had told Jim about the way that Jeff tells all of Jane’s secrets to Jon. Sam’s such a fuck. Oh, hi Sam, it’s soooo nice to see you. BF4ever.”

  Don’t want to practice today. The thing about music is that even if you say something really cool in a song, people can just listen to the music, they don’t have to pay attention to the words. I don’t want to waste all my good poems on a band that gets caught up in this shit.

  Dear New Yorker,

  Please find enclosed two poems by the GREATEST UNPUBLISHED WRITER IN AMERICA (me). I offer them first to you (You once published a poem by my great grandfather (Abe Issacson)).

  They cost $1000 per poem, or $1800 for both (special discount because they’re going to be published in New York, where so many Jews live).

  Sincerely,

  Elliot Rosenberg

  1727 Irving St. NW

  Washington, DC 20010

  P.S. Don’t try and shortchange me. You’re dealing with a professional and I know what this stuff is worth.

  Jordana, Kate and Sam-

  In case you don’t remember me, my name is Angie and we met at a potluck at the Newton house in August. I brought potato salad in a big blue bowl and we talked about the bowl for a while.

  I’m writing because I wanted to let you know that your housemate Elliot and his goateed friend came into the King’s Castle yesterday while I was working. When I saw him from the stage I vowed that if I ever ran into him again I would kick his white-boy ass.

  He and his friend walked in, ordered a coke and left without tipping.

  I guess what really pisses me off about this is that Elliot thinks that he’s so down with the strippers that he can bring outsiders into the Castle and parade the strippers around like he’s a tour guide in some smutty zoo. One of the things that we were all working for and something that Elliot claimed to be working for in Mindcleaner is a place where women and strippers feel safe. I used to feel safe in the punk community, but it seems like now all the boys who say that they’re into not viewing women as objects can flaunt their “accepted by and allied with strippers” position to the outside world and get to use our bodies as background scenery. Without tipping!!! I feel super pissed that somebody in the “community” (a HORNET!) would bring his friends in to look at me like a piece of meat. Elliot can’t keep this a secret any more. He’s more horn-y than horn-et.

  If it had been just Elliot I would have handled it myself, but since the issues are different, maybe you’ll want to confront him. At least I thought you should be warned.

  Get back to me about this

  Angie 265-1583

  Feel like every time I deal with a punk rocker in this town they see me as a dirty old man who went to a strip club. I could be paranoid, it’s hard to tell, people’s social skills are so poor I can’t tell if they’re treating me differently. Cool that doing one thing that gets misunderstood can ruin your rep as a politically down punk rocker. Like they’ve seen the true me through this incident, and indeed, grrrls and boys, he is a pig. Waiting for the zine Dead Elliots Don’t Rape to hit newsstands nationwide.

  Sam’s a little peeved to be losing punk rock points by living with such an out-of-fashion housemate. They had a three hour meeting with Angie. I think everyone is just embarrassed. Me most of all.

  1. Write thank-you note to Discontent for list of venues and promoters. (Let them know that places in Louisville are closed.)

  2. Call Brian about cover art. Recycled paper? Lyric sheet.

  3. Send tapes to: Hannah, Maureen, Hattiesburg, radio station in Eugene

  Christa wants me to help her move. Oy, yoy, yoy.

  Amazing how Americans remember those that they’ve worked so hard to forget the rest of the year.

  Santa, sitting stoically atop the housing project, chin resting on his fist as he looks down at the police handing out toys on the corner. His face is still, worn, but proud. This was the year that Christmas almost didn’t happen for everyone. There were a lot of children whose parents were jobless, many homeless. And through the efforts of various community organizations, under the supervision of Santa, or the collective goodwill of the citizens of Washington DC (whichever you believe in) Christmas did come this year. Every child got the things that he or she needed to make them feel loved: Batman karaoke machines, plastic photon guns that make realistic kill noises, new Nintendo cartridges, Barbies that talk when you pull the string in her back.

  Cut to a shot of the moon outside, a silhouette of a sled, loaded with toys, pulled by reindeer, glides by.

  A little salve on the conscience. We’ve conspired to give you shitty schools, an occupying army called the police to contain you, unhealthy living conditions followed by piss-poor medical care… But no kid should be without 47 Nintendo cartridges on Christmas.

  Scientific research has found that hearts nourished on plastic can cause abnormalities in the growth of the soul later in life. This can lead to conditions which often result in such “anti-social behavior” as to merit lockdown.

  Got Christa’s column today. Saw her at Pollo last week. I was just telling Sam about dealing with some crap at work, and she was taking pity on me and rubbing my shoulders. Christa came over, and it was just insanely uncomfortable. It’s been a long 10 months of trying to be friends. I think she just wants to be my friend because I put up with the trauma of it all. I don’t want to be a jerk, but I can’t coach her through another crisis with her house mates when I know that there’ll just be another one next week, and I don’t like her housemates anyway.

  Christa wanted to talk to me alone. We went downstairs by the bathrooms, and I was ready for her to grill me about the King’s Castle incident, but she started asking me all these questions about Sam and whether we were involved. I convinced her that we aren’t, even though it shouldn’t matter at all to her at this point. Then she started telling me about some new drama with her housemates and tears were welling up in her eyes.

 
Not sure if I said this or just thought it, but it was something like, “Get a grip on your own life before you fuck with mine.” I keep telling myself it’s the best thing for her, but I still feel like a jerk. Sad.

  Then she gives me this column about what a jerk I’ve been to her. (can she read my mind?) Basically, I’ll be using Christa’s pain to make my zine better, which makes me as big a prick as she says, but if I don’t print it, it seems like I’m trying to hide what she has to say to save myself. She’s a fucking genius.

  Walking with Kate to get Ethiopian food, ran into Tina and walked together towards Adams Morgan. Outside Bubblez Laundromat, one of the guys who’s usually drunk on the corner was on the ground, getting cuffed by eight cops. Kate and I stopped to witness. They were screaming at the guy, who was nose down to the cement, “Get up! Get on your feet, you slob!”

  After about 15 seconds, Tina asked, “Why are you guys watching this? You can see this stuff on TV every night.” 11 months after Rodney King, she wants to know why.

  Kate and I stood there until he was hustled into a patrol car.

  Good meal. Good conversation. Still didn’t sit well. Hard to enjoy food after watching the cops kick someone. Does it make me better than rest of America, who actively don’t care, if it ruins my digestion for a while? Kate said about her job and it seemed even truer after what we saw, “People act a little better if they think that other people are watching them.” What if they figure out that we’ll watch forever (to salve our conscience) and never do anything (don’t want to get hurt ourselves). What if we only watch?

  January 25

  Hannah,

  I have been meaning to write for some time etcetera etcetera, but etcetera etcetera. And now, after months of silence, I am going to lean on you and ask you to see my Snuffalufaguses. Maureen was here visiting, and she’s usually so good about seeing them, but Snuffs kept visiting during the stray minutes that she was preparing the letter of the day or counseling Oscar, or doing her hair, or something. So I turn to you, with hopes that if I’ve got to wear this heavy, feather-covered costume, you’ll see that I’m not just imagining the hairy elephant.