I like to think I've transcended my working class prejudice against wealthy parasites who never had to work for a living. And what the fuck? We are all parasites, right? I suppose I should have been ready to play nice with the other kids in the art fuck sandbox when I received some odd market-niche form-letter invitation to contribute my memories of punk fashion and any old pictures I have... because the none other than the motherfucking Metropolitan goddamn Museum of fucking Art is having a grand ol' punk ass exhibit about the evolution of one of my favorite pop culture fads from chaos to cuntwear.
Look it up online. The beautiful people showed up in tuxedos and ridiculous gowns to see a bunch of fashion puffery I never saw in a beer splattered basement, dive bar, bowling alley where some punk band made a roaring vacuum cleaner musical statement about whatever. For that matter, back in the '80s I saw Life Sentence in a fucking garage in Elmwood Park and I don't think anyone wore anything but jeans and t-shirts. Look up any vintage punk rock show on youtube and be amazed by how many mohawks and grand fashion statements you don't see.
Don't think I was a snob. I filled out the fucking form and told the assholes that for me, and those I hung out with, punk was an ethos not a fashion statement. It was loud, fast, and cheap. Not like paying a week's pay to see a rock star cunt like Mick Jagger. Don't get me wrong. I love the Stones. But not enough to pay 50 bucks to see them. Or 100 or whatever. Fuck it. I'll go buy a stack of albums for that money. Anyway, I wrote a bunch of shit and volunteered some photos, but never heard back from them. One upraised middle finger deserves another, and that's about as punk rock as that stupid shit is going to get.
Hope y'all had fun posing at the art show, ya cunts.