On whining

One of my least favorite things about writing is rereading things later and going: who unleashed that endless string of cliches and all around wackness out into the world? That was me? Surely someone hacked my account, they did me like they did Carmelo! This is especially true for me with blogging because I’m publishing anything that’s on my mind and with no editorial team to say: hey, homesickle (note: that’s what my theoretical editing squad would call me), that sentence has fourteen commas, tone that down, and be funnier and go harder. And at least those poems I wrote when I was a kid that I find hidden in old books like humility daggers--did I really rhyme “home” with “fall of Rome”?--I can blame on divorce and hormones and Elliott Smith albums. It’s worse to regret stuff I wrote yesterday. The guy who wrote the post twelve hours ago is only eight cups of coffee and one boxing lesson away from the guy I am now. But still that guy said some ish that I want to back away from.

In the post from yesterday I talked about feeling adrift, and feeling like no one--not even my icon Michael Moore--was inspiring in me any great confidence in the future of Michigan. And your response to that should be: aww, were you ornery because moms was too busy to make you dinner (yeah, how’d you know that, do you have my address, can you send a pizza over?) and, so what, do something about it.

I’m mostly into hip-hop at the moment, but the greatest cultural influence on my life has long been punk rock. Not that the aesthetic ever appealed to me (I know we’re into standing out, but it sure seems like a lot of work) or that I ever identified with the community (is this rebellion or are we bothering people just to bother people and can we turn those speakers down, it’s a weeknight) or even obsessed over the music that much (I never loved it the way I loved Wu-Tang or Nas or Damien Jurado.) But there is real liberation to be found in punk’s unapologetic nature and rejection of established institutions. Record labels don't like our music, we’ll start record labels. Venues don't want us around, we’ll play in our friends’ basements. Bathrooms won’t let us take showers, we won’t shower (just playing, I don’t know where the anti-cleanliness ethos came from.) We’ll do it ourselves.

The problem is that these problems are so big. There are no DIY solutions to the global economic crisis and environmental degradation and winter being so damn cold and long and freezing and lengthy and icy and endless. But the best lesson of punk rock--that you don’t need anyone’s permission or blessing to live how you want to live--is huge and hugely energizing. If you want more for your life, if you need more, go be more, don’t wait for Moore (I’m sorry, I know, but I had to.)(And I’ll stop saying sorry, that’ll be my last apology in the history of this blog.)(Wait, I should also apologize for saying punks reject societal expectations for hygiene, that’s an unfair stereotype.)(But, seriously, go to a basement show and tell me what you experience.)(Let’s move on.)