Whether it Be Curbing or Kerbing, Nothing Vomits Sweeter Than Stolen Beer
Society has been going to hell since the invention of the Good Old Days. Funny thing there–because it’s true and yet there are new Good Old Days rolling out of the Good Old Days Factory constantly. A Paradox, until you remember that New People are being produced at even a greater frequency.
To get a fix on the validity of the Good Old Days situation I find it better to aim low than high. By such I say disregard elevated standards of (false) morality between eras and look down at how the disrespectful have aged over the years.
About fifty years ago “Punks” were the skidmarks of the social order. Genuine Punks (forget the posers) were gleefully wasted and violent and behaved in any manner that pissed people off; hell they even attacked their own music. Unfortunately anarchy cannot exist as a concept, if it is true to itself. Anarchy as a State or state isn’t. When associated with a wildly pomaded mohawk or a rusty bolt shoved through the nose, anarchy becomes something else–for a lack of a better label, call this “a style.”
Recently, someone told me about the “Retro Punk Movement.” I laughed scornfully and told that person the main movement in true Punk society involved that in one’s pants when too drunk to locate a toilet. I knew these people (the 70’s Seattle version were delightful vermin) and they were gleefully and sincerely fucked in the head. They believed that the world had already ended and that no one had the guts to admit it.
Maybe they had it right. Still, Punks were doomed to fall apart because they had no center to hold them together. All was lost, there was no future, get wasted, die motherfucker die. But they did express a strange sort of depraved creativity other than in atonal music–even essentially useless Sid Vicious kept his methadone in a dish soap dispenser. There’s something awfully anti-classy about that. Theirs was a simple existence, not much more complicated than a boil of maggots.
Anyway, although there can be something called Retro Punk, it is not Punk, but “poser”–the antithesis of Punk. Back in that day, posers usually got cigarettes put out in their eyes and their heads Bristol stomped into brain pudding on the kerb/curb by the incidental Skinhead (perhaps the only form of life significantly lower than a dedicated Punk; we all need someone to look down on–that’s why God invented Seagull, they make Pigeons feel better about themselves and vice versa).
Yes, the “Retro Punkers” are obviously posers. Suburban smarty-pants who will soon get jobs because there is no Retirement Plan in Punkdom. This makes sense because all the real Punks died long before Thatcher left office (and yes, Johnny Rotten, you still breathe–but you got plenty of beer money–thus have become a symbol of Good Old Days–a slurring, stumbling nostalgia act). This makes me sad; a depression that has been underscored by a recent meaningless development in my life. It even appears that the undemanding standards of negative mindlessness can sink below the lowest degree of recognition. You see, just the other day, some pink haired poser girl clad in shiny leather (cleanliness of any kind was an anathema to a real Punk ), her mouth a Stonehenge circle of piercings, directed a pair of decidedly non-punk oafs with Taliban beards to relocate a large box containing a metal bunk bed frame from her apartment and stick it in the hall near my door. I noticed the activity, but thought nothing of it. Figured they were moving out and that the thing would soon be gone. When I came home, the Awful Truth presented itself. The poser was moving out and had scribbled “FREE” and the “Anarchy” symbol (which I cannot locate anywhere in emojis) on the box. There is so much wrong with this that it has me thinking about the resumption of Thorazine. Bunk beds? There were no bunk beds in Punk–except maybe on Rikers Island.
Alas, the anarchists (now rotting at the bottom of the Thames, East and Green Rivers or in their potter’s graves) of the 70’s had it right. The true fall of civilization has already happened and was so lame that no one noticed. This raises a philosophical question in my mind: If a civilization falls and everyone’s on their phone, does it make a noise?
Hmmm, it appears that I have arrived at the place in this post where I should say something semi-life-affirming and move on…
Let’s try this:
The Fine Week That Was
Despite the fall, we here at LS will continue to do our best to not be posers in this time that was supposed to feature a Seven-Headed Goat tossing the damned into a Lake of Fire; but the Goat discovered, a bit late, that the last of the damned cannon-balled into that body of water upon the debut of Lady Diana Spencer.
Save for one, every writer this week is new to the site. That is always a great thing and it makes us optimistic about the site’s continued growth.
João Cequia was the first of our writers to make a site debut this week. The Wolf and the Lamb is a strikingly fresh look at an evil probably as old as time itself. It takes talent to make the reader stick it out to the end with such an ugly subject. Joao has that sort of talent.
Newcomer Ian Douglas Robertson changed the mood but not the high degree of quality on Tuesday with the amusing Catty. This one takes you for a wild ride and gives one a greater appreciation for “Pizza Royalty.”
Toye Eskridge drove us way the hell out in the country to mark midweek. The Exchange is a brilliant take on what first appears to be a Where the Hills Have Eyes (and usually teeth) sort of thing. This one creates its own little bubble in the fabric of the universe, and leads the reader to a strange place indeed.
Gerald Coleman was our final debut author of the week with Out of His League. It proves that little changes in the heart over the decades. Oh, social mores come and go and there’s this odd pattern of periods of hedonism followed by utterly hypocritical prudish times (from the do as I say not as I do school), such as well, now. Gerald looks back at a time that can be fondly remembered. Billy is a bit off base in his thinking–but almost everyone is.
Dianne Willems made a welcomed return to close the week with After the Fall. The opening sentence is a triumph for irony and the second to last paragraph captures sadness as well as it can be trapped by words. This was a work long in progress and the result Dianne achieved is well worth the work.
As always I encourage you to read and comment on these and other works in our archive. The vault is always open; all you need to do is use the search bar in every post. Don’t worry about getting trapped inside, there’s no latch on the door.
Ringtones From Hell
Comedian Richard Lewis died recently. He is credited for popularizing the phrase “The (Blank) from hell” (date, job, holiday etc.) So in his honor I present a list of the top ten ringtones from hell that disturbed me over the many years I spent commuting to work by ferry. The boat left at 4:50 AM daily and took an hour to get to Seattle. I, like most, included that hour in our sleep schedule. And yet precisely at 4:51 AM, you’d start hearing the ringtones from hell.
- Breaking glass (Why? The SOB never changed that one for ten years)
- “Git er done” (“Larry the Cable Guy” is someone you’d either meet at a swap meet or in hell)
- Achy Breaky Heart (I strongly encourage the Cyrus Clan not to reproduce further)
- Star Spangled Banner (one fool actually stood for it)
- Who Let the Dogs Out (Whoever did it should be hanged)
- An Owl hooting (over and over and over…)
- Gunfire (not a real good idea in America)
- A “homemade” ringtone of an inexpertly recorded voice of a lisping toddler: “Thello Grammath! Thrise and Thine!” (It was almost enough to make me jump off the fucking boat.)
- 1970’s Steve Martin bellowing “Well exxxccccuuuuse me!” (I wished everything from hemorrhoids to brain cancer on the a-hole who had that one–then again with him those would be similar afflictions.)
- Open for suggestions
Leila
literally stories 
A thought provoking post. I like the honesty. I hope that by now the bunkbed frame has been made away with. It’s laziness actually, isn’t it. There are places who will happily come and retrieve useful houshold items and plenty of people who need them. If it’s knackered then you just have to bite the bullet and pay to have it taken away or risk a disc and take it to the tip yourself. the plastic punks are awfully tame these days. As for the ring tones. I just think we should go back to a phone sound. I did for a while have ‘I love it when you call’ by the Feeling. Oh I thought I was so witty until it went off when I was looking round a church one time. Didn’t seem appropriate with the bloke up front and that. They included a vibrate feature for a reason why don’t people just use it.
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Thank you Diane
The bunk bed set vanished just shy of its one month anniversary last week. I was so used to seeing it that the hallway looks “wrong” without it. Many ringtones are clever, but it’s hard for one to be clever enough before 5 AM. I used to wonder “who calls at that time?” but let it go.
Thanks again!
Leila
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Another good SatPost as usual. “If a civilization falls and everyone’s on their phone, does it make a noise?” It ends not with a bang but a whimper. Which is the sound I made whenever any ringtone got me out of bed before I retired.
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Hello David
I plan on blocking certain numbers on my phone upon retirement, but since my version of a comfortable retirement is looking more and more like death it will probably stay a fantasy.
Thank you as always!
Leila
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Since I don’t like cell phones within my hearing, I’m sure the ringtones as well as the calls are something I wouldn’t want to hear.
Thanks for “hanged” instead of “hung”.
For me it was the early sixties coffee house “folk groups” such as (I’m serious) the Turkey Pluckers. Playing the part before becoming corporate execs.?
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Hello Doug
Ah, spring is on its way. And since it’s an election year the streets of Seattle and Portland will be filled with protestors (aka “the unemployed”).
Anyway, happy St Patrick’s Day to you and to all. I only wish they would stop dying beer green. Hey, I could protest that!
Ah yes, as the old saying (that draws snickers from the young at heart), pictures are hung, people are hanged.
Leila
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Just so. I might be 1/16 Irish. My remark about that is unkind, so I won’t repeat it. I do like corned beef, hold the cabbage.
Just saw a Toyota Tacoma pickup. Did the bosses at Toyota think that conveyed high level esteem?
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Anyone who believes that a Tacoma anything conveys high class has obviously not spent much time in “Aroma.” There’s a section along I-5 that stunk like a paper mill until recently. I forget the exact cause, but it was sulfurous and something I have actually used in writing.
Plus the town is dangerous as hell no matter what their city hall says.
Leila
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In Northeast Portland it was Camas “the smell of money” from accross the Columbia.
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Hi Leila,
I wonder regarding any music ‘fad’, (For want of a better word and in noway meaning to be insulting) that, when the ideology becomes more important than the music, is that detrimental to both??
The way I look at it, if the ideology is focused on then that could narrow the audience??? You may not really have a predominately classical fan want to partake in some anarchy but they may enjoy a few of the tunes!!!
Regarding irritating ring tones, I would simply say, all of them. Phones were invented to ring in designated areas, (Mainly your hallway) anywhere else is an intrusion to those around!!
Brilliant post as always.
Hugh
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Thank you Hugh.
That need to belong to something larger than ourselves is an overmastering one. Punks were all about anarchy, but that dries faster than ether, and soon enough they had organized anarchy. The atoms always attract, but the notion of rebellion, or even giving the world a social enema, was not entirely futile. It made a point.
I bet you anything there were kids who dressed like Mozart and parents who did not understand!
Leila
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We Seattle Punks were dead before we started.
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Oh I remember you guys, Marco–circa 1976-78. I lived in a dive apartment next to the Paramount theatre after high school–right across the street from a gay bar named “Spags Tavern.” Then money came and killed it. I remember the hole in the wall clubs and the handmade Ramones posters on Capital Hill.
Great times,
Leila
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Whooo Lordy… I remember that shithole apartment building beside the Paramount, I remember Sprags, and I remember black and white 25-cent TVs at the tables of Abruzzi’s Pizza. All gone now. And yet, there was that moment, just a few heartbeats, when the dischord curled into a sonic brain wave, none for the filth mattered, and everything was perfect.
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Marco
Haven’t thought about Abruzzi’s in a long time. My brother was afraid of the “dancing girls” on Pike Avenue. They’d come out and try to grab guys off the street. Those guys went from street tough to five years old in no time at all. I found it hysterical. There’s a Cheesecake Factory there now. Too depressing.
Leila
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Great post – I was ten years old when punk hit my hometown in 1977 and so a little young to understand its depths of potential depravity. However, those a little older than me, who were able to go full punk style are still the coolest ever people I’ve seen on this planet. As for dodgy ringtones – anyone using something like the Sex Pistols because they think it’s an ‘edgy’ ringtone is an immediate and absolute tosser.
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Hello Paul
Thank you! Yes! People who use their ringtones to project an aura of coolness are definitely lacking in that department. My mother was a odd mix of old fashioned and wild–I recall the first time she saw a true punk girl in full gear. “Nice boots,” she said.
Leila
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Rent for $100 next to Portland State early 1960s. All the buildings gone to urban renewal (left’s build public housing because we tore all the cheap stuff down), I405, Portland State expansion.
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Hi Doug
That appears to be a theme in cities that I all too well understand. Greed. In 1977 my rent in downtown Seattle was $110, utilities included (of course I made 2.30 an hour). You can’t park a car there anymore for a day much under that.
Governments seldom replace slums with affordable housing. Nowadays Seattle is this shiney expensive thing that looks as though someone has vomited on it. Beautiful buildings standing empty.
Once upon a time you had to be really messed up to be homeless. You had to really try not to afford a twenty dollar a week flop.
Leila
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Leila –
Did you know that Seattle beats Portland in another way? It’s a much more popular nuclear attack site than Portland. Gone are the days of any comparison. I wish Portland would just accept that it is nowhere and trying to be the progressive “it” city looks stupid when it mostly excells at homeless and crime.
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I live and work between the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard and the Trident nuke sub base. Fortunately, my war experience would be extremely brief!
Leila
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