Do It Yourself

People are always surprised when they discover I used to play in punk bands. Whether it’s the $50 haircut, the lack of tattoos, or my often pleasant body odor, I don’t read as punk. From the first time I tried to land a kickflip until now, a lighthouse of punk has guided me. I grew up playing trashy rock n’ roll in my Dad’s garage. He made beef stew for me and my friends, always kept the kerosene heater running, and told the neighbors to fuck off when they made noise complaints. We graduated to playing bars and record stores which felt like stadiums. And though it killed my Dad, he’d let me go out to the local dive bar on a school night to scream my hearts out. When I’d come home, he always leave the light on. When I’d walk through the door, I could hear him click the lamp off. He could never sleep until I got home. It went on like this for most of my life. 

Now I wear khakis. And it got me thinking about what punk means to me. 

There are two types of punks: Sex Pistols punks and Fugazi punks. Sex Pistols punks crush the aesthetic. Their mohawks and leather jackets glistening in the broken glass as they declare anarchy in Sparks, Nevada. A snarl and sneer. Punk as fuck. Then there are the Fugazi punks. They are the ones soundproofing the basement so they can host a Food Not Bombs benefit without the cops being called. They are making a pot of vegan spaghetti for the touring band sleeping on their floor. They are building a community one DIY brick at a time. 

I’ve learned more from the DIY punk ethos than any philosophy book. Fugazi means more to me than Kant. It taught me you don’t need the system to make things you love. Radio won’t play your jams? Start your own radio show. Ticketmaster charging $90 for Tool? Start a venue in the basement of a record store. Do it your fucking self. And I although I stopped making punk records, I helped start a ‘zine, a couple idiotic sketch comedy groups, a podcast, and a bunch of other ridiculous things I love more than family. Hell, even this blog was born of DIY punk culture. I don’t submit my work for anyone’s approval. I make it. I do it with people I love. How we want. When we want. 

But lately I’ve lost something. I shelved my lofty artistic ideas in favor of financial security. 

I was lead to believe that if I sold out my beliefs and gave up my dreams, I would drive a BMW, have a loveless marriage, and abuse alcohol on the way to an early grave. Well, I’m one for three. I just assumed selling out would be more glamorous than this.

It wasn’t that long ago I had dreams. My sense of identity was rich and varied. A juggernaut of creative fury burning the candle at both ends in pursuit of an artistic zenith the likes of which have not been known since the Renaissance. 

Now I make spreadsheets. They are handsome, brilliantly designed spreadsheets, but a far cry from my magnum opus.    

That is where my contribution ends. 

And I can make peace with that. Or I thought I could. But as I sit in my sub 400 sq/ft apartment, I can’t help but feel like Ray Liotta at the end of Goodfellas. I’m a schnuck. I’m a regular nobody. I just thought the pay would be better.

I sold my soul to the corporate machine, and all I got were these lousy khakis. I’m the one who says do more with less, tows the company line, and who champions the needs of the business. And I can swallow it all. But in return, I’d like an Eames Lounge and a cat. That’s the price of my soul. But it isn’t really. That’s my asking price. I’ve been haggled down to sick-time I can’t use and a 4X4 cubicle.

13 hour days. Living out of a suitcase. I sleep in hotels more than my own bed. Nothing is ever good enough. Nothing matters. And it’s not that different than the life I lead when I was making things. Except the things I made were labors of love. Now I love labor.  

I was working when I found out my Dad died. And went right back to work. I scheduled my bereavement time for when it was convenient for the company. God forbid grief get in the way of the holiday sales season.

Punk Nick hates me. And I don’t blame him.