The Roar of the Masses Could Be Farts

Fists clenched and jaws open, snarling and shouting as loud as they possibly could, a dozen or so angry men move closer towards me, hungry for blood. They all look relatively similar, decorated in black clothes with chains and patches, heads shaved or hair formed into mohawks. They're tall as trees, all looking ready and able for a fight.

I'm the scrawny dude scampering around the stage, knocking everything over as I move backwards without looking. The room is dimly lit, with the occasional moving makeshift spotlight moving around and reflecting off my face and red hair, not helping matters much. A hundred some odd smelly punk kids are standing around the room. Some of them are watching this fiasco unfold, others paying more attention to the conversations scattered across the room. The place smells like a trash heap, and the beer-soaked egg crates poorly affixed to the wall with duct tape don't help to dismiss this idea. The place has become the scene of the most discombobulated riot/social gathering I've ever seen.

One of the big guys trying to end me says something generic to this situation, like "You're fucking dead!" The other gentlemen around him appear to concur with him, judging by the fact that they're all making guttural sounds and flailing their arms wildly.

Life isn't so bad, I think to myself. It could be worse. I could be responsible for all of this.

I don't think I've ever told anyone this, but everything that has transpired can be traced back to one simple question:

"Paper or plastic?"

If I remember correctly, I was standing in checkout lane number seven of a local grocery store, with the intent to purchase a jug of wine. When this question brought forward by the forty-something oddly faced bagwoman was proposed, I pondered the idea of having to carry the jug home in a plastic bag, fifteen blocks away, swinging freely and inevitably tearing a hole through the plastic. Not wanting to get cheap cabernet all over the sidewalk and have to scrounge around for broken glass, I opted for the paper bag, picturing myself walking the distance and clutching the jug to my chest.

Having told the bag woman my choice, I was about to be on my way with my jug of wine. However, before I could set foot past the checkout isle, behind me, I heard in loud, shrieking words, "You wasteful fuck!"

I stop in my tracks and turn around, to see a large woman as equally creepy as the bag lady. She has a horrible look on her face as if she just murdered someone in a violent rampage. She was wearing a large black t-shirt with a large green tree spray painted on it. She was pointing a protruding, meaty finger at me, and just stood there, immersing me in this awkward silence for a good thirty seconds. She then continued from her interruption.

"How many trees do you have to kill to secure your groceries, huh?" The woman was sidestepping and still stating at me, using the same angry tone of voice to belittle me in front of other customers and employees for no apparent reason. "Do you think that the rainforest should be cut down so you don't have to carry plastic bag?"

I was just standing there, itching to get outside. As I was face to face from a small distance with this ogre of a woman, the cashier at the register attempted to ignore it, ringing up the woman's six-pack of beer. As the bag woman, who didn't want any obvious confrontation, started to put the angry woman's beverages into a plastic bag, the bigger woman violently snatched the beer from the bagger's hands, while pulling out one of those environmentally friendly "green" shopping bags from her back pocket and stuffing the beverages into it. "Think environmentally, fucko!" She released, as she stiffly stormed out of the door.

Personally, before then, I hadn't seen quite a demonstration of such devotion towards the environment, as well as blatant and wanton hypocrisy and random violence. Such fervor and burning passion were behind this woman's words and thunderous steps. She believed in something, no matter how horribly wrong she was and how she neglected other fine details.

To be honest, I was quite intrigued. I wanted in. At that time, I really didn't defend anything other than a loosely collected set of generic beliefs and a large jug of wine. I wanted to be part of a movement where I could establish a stronger will and set of ethics. I needed to fit in some place where people like that were commonplace, and could teach me a thing or two.

However, I was a copy editor then for a big named publishing company. I read what other people wrote, revised it, sent it back to them and others for approval, and went home to my otherwise dull life. I didn't know anything about any existing radical subcultures.

Until exactly one week later, when I was minding my own business over a recent manuscript for a soon-to-be-published self help book. A fellow co-worker who I've never really spoken to approached me with an equally life-changing question.

"Do you like punk rock?"

It caught me completely off-guard.

At that time, I was a simple man. I was content with my existence up until the past week's event. I've never really questioned much authority up or my life until that point. I listened to what was on the radio and read what family members and work memos told me to read. To be honest, it was nothing significant and earth-shattering. It was enjoyable, quaint and typical, almost picturesque. It was nothing to dwell on and nothing to pat myself on the back for.

Thinking about it made me a bit upset. Maybe I had been missing out this entire time on something radical and life-changing. Something that would make me a better me could exist in the real world, without all of the self-help books and therapy sessions people often frequent. Something out there existed beyond what I knew, and beyond what television told me to know. This led to a question on my part.

"What exactly is punk rock?"

Taken aback, my coworker, who was named Robert, but went by the colloquial "Bob", stood at my desk, mouth open and eyes fixed on my casual question. He was twenty two, which was my age, and kind of towered over me. He was dressed casually (hence "Casual Friday") in a t-shirt with a black anarchy "A" symbol spray painted on it and torn jeans. This was completely contrasted by my sweater vest and khakis, which not only stood out on Casual Friday, but on a summer day in Manhattan.

"Oh, my friend!" He put his arm around me, as if we were long time friends. He started to rant a bit "Punk rock is, like, everything you'd want out of life, and more!"

"Is it a jug of wine?" I asked him, jokingly. "I do enjoy my wine." I must have looked like a dork when I said that.

"No, buddy. Punk rock is not your jug of wine. Punk rock is not something that could be easily bought or sold, or told, even. Frankly, I don't understand why we're having this conversation. You should come to my show tonight and then maybe that would give you a better idea of what punk rock is."

Bob handed me a flyer, containing crude drawings and a list of band names that were quite obscene (to me, at least). According to what he told me, he moonlit as the drummer for a local punk band called Gloucester Gangbang, which was playing with other bands that night. Since my favorite NPR show on Fridays had been recently cancelled, I had nothing else to do. And, with the crazy woman at the grocery store's indirect intervention still lingering in the back of my mind, I yearned for reform. I knew I had to go.

.

I showed up quite early to the venue, which was located in downtown Green Point, Brooklyn. Nobody was there yet, because the show didn't start for another 15 minutes. Apparently, being punctual is not punk rock, from what I gathered, so I quickly apologized to Bob, who was setting things up on the stage.

The place, called The Pit, was quite beautiful, now that I think about it. Before then, I was used to white walls decorated with all sorts of colorful glass knick knacks and bright lighting. The venue was a total dump. It was dimly lit, with beer bottles everywhere, and people's names and graffiti tags covering the bulk of the charcoal black walls. Couches were oddly placed A bevy of odd looking people all stood around the bar area, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoking cigarettes. They were all dressed similarly to Bob, who had his Casual Friday clothes still on. I, on the other hand, was wearing a Lynard Skynard and jeans, which was quite possibly about the most rebellious I could be at that time.\

The venue quickly filled up with people looking similar to those at the bar. One gentleman stood out because his hair was spiked up a foot tall above his head and it was dyed bright pink. He was wearing chains all over his body and a shirt that said "DON'T TRUST THE GOVERNMENT" in big letters. I was intrigued, to say the least.

What really got me, though, was when the music started. I don't know if I could call it music, more than a barrage of noise loosely held together in 4/4 timing, played as fast as humanly possible. When I could make out the lyrics, I heard bits and pieces about the government, and the so-called elusive "man" that apparently was getting everyone "down". It was beautiful. It was almost like the time where I ventured off the record store as a kid and, instead of picking up the latest Jimmy Eat World cd, I picked up a copy of Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music instead. It was just a wall of sound of distortion and screams and nothing more, but it meant something. I think.

I could see Bob on the stage pounding away at the drum skins, sweating bullets through his t-shirt. The head of the band walked across the stage like an angry man trying to incite a riot. Apparently, three-quarters into the show, he did, and bottles and all sorts of nastiness were being thrown towards the stage. People were screaming and shouting, some fighting with each other. This happened for a while, me watching it all unfold safely from the doorway leading to the front of the venue.

Until the inevitable. Police sirens went off behind me, and a striking man behind me started to freak out. "The fucking pigs are here!" he started to yell. "We all gotta chill out before the bacon come in!" He was running around the room, trying to calm everyone down, avoiding catastrophe and possible arrest like a modern day Paul Revere.

The police came in quickly, though, and removed everyone. Bob's drum set was pretty trashed, but he didn't really look phased about it. A few people were arrested, with Bob and me watching them from outside, drinking and talking.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asked me between sips of warm beer. "Did that whet your appetite? Did that…" he paused, for a second, trying to garner a reaction or response from me. I gave a look of satisfaction. "Did that make you feel alive, man?"

I was looking at him and behind him, watching the tall-haired man get escorted into a police vehicle, kicking and shouting various expletives on his way in. "You know," I started to confess, "I quite did. It was a change of pace. It was a much needed change of pace."

Bob put his hand on my shoulder and sighed. "Good, man" He put his beer down as he continued to talk, looking quite stern. "You know, though, that this is just the beginning."

Now, I'm sure I should explain all the details. I should say what records I bought, what shows I attended, what books I read and anything pertaining to this subculture, but I'm not going to do that. It would be a barrage of technical terms and name-dropping people and places that aren't entirely relevant, due to the fact that, when I was consuming these various forms of media, everyone else has already and considered it all played out to death. I'm not going to sit here and hold your hand while telling you which Black Flag 7" single had the most impact on my life at that time, and what Albert Camus book defines me as a person. That would be trivial and silly.

What I will talk about, however, is something really funny that happened. I've always had this elusive grandfather who was always scheming throughout his life, making unfair and somewhat illegal business choices. He owned this business downtown Manhattan, across the street from the Young Republican Society building. He owned the entire business, and the building that it was contained in. He was such a schemer that I never met him, because of the fact that the family kind of shunned him. I never really kept in touch much with my family, because we were always off doing our own things, but I never spoke to him.

Later on in life, this man, my grandfather, got a bit too over his head. He was apparently always a tad eccentric, and started to develop somewhat unorthodox business practices. By unorthodox, I mean he started to show signs of dementia. The man was at the age of 70, so it was only right and natural. By dementia, I mean showing up to work in a raincoat and nothing else, or attempting to fornicate with his then-wife in the main lobby of the building. That kind of eccentric.

Well, a few months after the concert, which I like to refer to as my "rebirth" period, the man died. He lost his life doing what he loved best: committing suicide.

When his lawyers rummaged through the contents of his will, they found that the entire bulk of the will was left to me, his grandson, whom he never had any contact with. Now, this was quite a shock, but what was even more shocking was that he chose me by randomly selecting a living relative on our family tree. What luck, right?

He basically left me the business and the building it was housed in. Right after he died, the board of directors for the business decided to close it, selling it off with me retaining a large amount of money. However, after a series of law suit threats and insurance fraud claims and such, the money ended up being paid back to those who were doing all the finger pointing and tying up loose ends. Essentially, I was left with only an abandoned office building.

I told this all to Bob. Bob and I had been spending a lot of time out of work. He lived with his girlfriend on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and we'd always go over there to listen to records that he thought were "essential" to the punk ethic and lifestyle. We'd talk about politics, terrorism, activism, economics, and anything slightly interested and left-brained, the both of us sitting around his kitchen table. It was quite a unique friendly bonding experience, and it's still something I treasure to this day, even if I am getting the shit kicked out of me as the end result.

"Let's move there, dude," he told me, excited with the idea that I owned a notch in the belt of corporate America. "It would be a great squat, you know? Kind of ironic. A bunch of punk kids living together under one roof, which used to epitomize everything we generally hate."

"Living?" I asked him.

Still excited, Bob shook his head. "Yeah, living. Think about it. We could turn part of the place into a venue and hold shows. You'll never have to pay rent or anything. You could charge for shows or something, and make money that way." This sounded like a great idea, but the idea of X-amount of smelly punk kids living under one roof was kind of odd, especially if it were to be a place of business.

"I don't know. I'm kind of on the fence about all of this." I was still muddy about the details as to how this would happen. Would I continue my current job as a copy editor? How would I be able to get away with this?

"Tell me, dude. What's one thing you always wanted the complete freedom to do, but never really got a chance to do?" Bob looked relaxed, but serious when he said this. I sat there for a while, pondering this question. For the past few months, these few questions have completely changed my outlook on life and how I think. This one took a bit.

"I guess I always wanted to be a poet," I said. "I always wanted to write poetry and share it with people. It's not really economically feasible, but it's something I had a hidden passion for." I sipped my tea while I turned my head, looking around the room at various posters and vinyl records hanged up on the wall.

It was then that Bob slapped me.

I held my jaw in pain, trying to find a reason as to why such a thing just occurred.

"Don't you understand, dude?" Bob looked really passionate as he was saying this. "If we do this thing, then not only could you write poetry whenever the hell you want to, but you could also read it in front of a whole lot of people." Of course. He was referencing the venue idea. I would have an outlet. People would listen to me. They would hear my words and take them in as something constructive. I would have an audience.

I was all for it.

We made it work. After much deliberation and careful planning, we just decided to move our stuff there. The building was 12 stories tall, and we just made a makeshift living quarters. It was your typical office place, divided by cubicles and desks. It had ordinary white carpeting with ordinary grey walls. Where there wasn't grey carpeting, there were tan walls with dark brown hardwood floors. If you have an idea of what a generic office building looks like, then you know what it looked like.

I lived on the top floor, in one of the former board rooms. Picture a giant conference table with a mattress on it, surrounded by books and manuscripts I had to read as I finished out the last few weeks of my job.

Bob and his girlfriend lived a couple of floors below me, in a similar style. Only, they inhabited the largest copy room I had ever seen. They slept together between reams of paper and piles of unused fax machines. It was quite a sight to behold.

We ate breakfast in various break rooms and played hide and go seek in the main office venues. We took sledgehammers to computers and cubicle walls, shouting with glee and amusement as we tore down the structures that once held this place together.

After a few weeks of this, we got a bit bored. One could only play catch with an empty water cooler jug on the roof so many times before they tend to lose interest. We needed more people to join us in this large building. We needed more friends. Bob knew as few people as I did, though he did have his band. He called them, and they moved in shortly after.

After a few weeks, we both finished our jobs as copy editors. We had no income, but some money saved up. More and more people started to move in. The band that moved in had their girlfriends move in. Their girlfriends' friends moved in after them, as did their friends bands. After a month or so, we had about 70 people illegally living in this office building, not paying any rent or anything. Everyone was just drinking and fucking and banging on everything. I guess that was pretty punk rock.

At nights, we would all play games. One of the bands had amassed a large collection of laser tag accessories over the years, so the place turned into a madhouse for a few hours, with horrible shooting sounds going off everywhere in the building. Sometimes, people would get guitars and try to form new bands and side-projects apart from other bands. Usually, those sessions ended with everyone either doing drugs or sleeping together. I didn't really take much part in that, as I would retreat to my fortress of solitude on the top floor and attempt to crank out a poem or two.

I remember this one time where I was approached by this girl, who had apparently lived there for two weeks, but I hadn't seen or met her until then. She was kind of unkempt, due to her decision to not use the shower in the locker rooms on a regular basis, like most people that lived in the building.

"Are you busy?" She was quite forward, and attempting to be as seductive as humanly possible, despite the horrible stench protruding from her hair and clothing. "I'm bored. I need you to entertain me."

I put down the baseball bat I was using to destroy a server tower and paid attention to her. "Like, sex, you mean?" I was pretty frank and forward, but I guess she was too.

"Yeah, like sex. But, I mean, it's not like it's a big deal or anything. It's not like I'm a slut." She started to continue on, and it drove me a bit tired and bothersome by it. I don't know why. I just didn't want to hear what she had to say. "I just don't believe in monogamy, you know. Belonging to one person. That's just the man telling you what to do. How to act with your body."

I laughed. It was probably the funniest and cutest thing I've heard in a while. "No, I still think that, even though we are kind of a tight knit group and against all that, you'd still be considered a slut." That was harsh.

She ran off crying, yelling through the hallway, as Bob approached me. He must have heard the entire conversation, and found it amusing, as he was smiling when he was moving closer. "You have to be honest, you know," he told me, attempting to high five me.

I returned said high five, but was still upset. "I don't know, Bob. I feel bad about what I just said." I was getting a bit upset then, realizing that I might have done something wrong. "We're part of a subculture now. We should be looking out for our people."

Bob chuckled and started to speak. "Nah, dude," he spoke lightheartedly. "We're counterculture. Mean as we fucking want to be."

The power was eventually shut off because we neglected to pay the bills. The water was still on by some divine force, though we probably guessed that this wouldn't last for long.

We went around to everyone living in the building, which was apparently now simply dubbed "The Building" by the local punks. Bob and I made it clear to them that, although it was free for them to stay, we needed to pool our money together to turn the power back on for the venue we were trying to put together on the ground floor, as well as water for showers.

At first, the punks were all taken aback by this idea. "We don't have to pay in this ideal society, man," one of them blurted out. Bob and I simply suggested after that for everyone to move out, which was met with boos and jeers. Everyone was comfortable living there, but nobody wanted to throw down when it came to actually maintaining the place.

A kid, whose name I still don't know, approached us. He was about 18 years old and probably recently graduated high school. "Yo, I could endorse you guys," "He suggested. "My parents gave me all of this money for college. I told them I got into a good school, and that's all they wanted to know. I regularly call them for money, and they just send it. They're away in Europe or something on holiday all the time. It's not that big of a deal."

After this kid, more and more people kept coming up, agreeing to help out. "Yeah, man. I could ask my parents to do the same," said one.

"Mine could help out, too," cried out a girl from across the room.

It got to the point where the bulk of the room was pulling out their cell phones, calling home about needing to borrow money. After a few days, we had a handful of checks and brought them to the bank. With that, we turned the power back on, kept the water on, and started to remodel the downstairs by ourselves into a useable venue.

We tore out faux marble tiling and replaced them with sheets of plywood. One of the band members that lived at The Building ended up being a carpenter, and helped us erect a makeshift stage over the large receptionist desk in the center lobby. Outlets were found and extension cords were snaked across the lobby floor. Assorted lights were strung across the stage and lobby, and one of the girls dumpstered a searchlight, turning it into a spotlight. Bob put those foam egg crates all across the walls to try and soundproof them, in wake of neighbors or cops coming over and getting us evicted. Between each of these were doodles and drawings all over the walls, done by the residents. "Jonny Z Waz Here" was the most frequently found tag on all of the walls, but if you asked a resident of the Building who Jonny Z was, they wouldn't be able to tell you.

After everything was put together, we had our stage. It looked like we did it ourselves, but that gave us all a sense of pride. This was quite a lot to take in, as I had helped start a movement. I had done something constructive. I had become part of a society where I was looked at as not only an equal, but of someone with importance that had changed something in a way. I don't know exactly what I changed, but I know I got a good gut feeling out of all of it. We were all angry about something, be it social change or discrimination or life in general. We rebelled against it and carved out our own niche. Our voice was heard, as more and more people kept pouring in.

As we were putting up the hand-drawn sign of the venue, reading "The Building" in big aluminum foil covered letters, I heard one of the punks behind me say to another, "Man, all of this stuff is great. Maybe it isn't such a bad thing that our parents have money."

For another month, the people at the Building just partied nonstop. Beer and drugs were commonplace, and having to wake people up from nodding off after shooting up too much heroin became a chore of mine. While everyone was indulging in whatever they wanted to, I was upstairs writing poetry.

Tonight, I wrote what I thought was my masterpiece. It was angry, rebellious and demanding of the audience to be in a frenzy and lash out against the often spoken about man. I thought of it while reading books on the Victorian era of poetry. Sure, that might not have been punk rock, but some of the ideas were rebellious. Hell, "Kubla Khan" was pretty punk rock, to me. It was the definition of punk rock. It was radical compared to what was released at that time.

The venue was to successfully open tonight without a hitch, and I was going to read poetry before Bob and his new band "Bob and the Pedestrians" were to play, along with about 12 other acts, in a show that would go on to the wee hours of the morning. Bob came up to my room, and we were talking about the excitement that was about to unfold. At that time, he got off of band practice to see what I was up to. I started to read him part of the poem, and he enjoyed it He really did. With that in mind, I kept a positive attitude towards everything. Sure, poetry might not have gone over well with everyone, but some people in the audience might enjoy it.

That night, I took to the stage. I gave an opening speech about how great of a place the Building was, free of any of the outside burdens of society. Sure, we all looked like a bunch of mangy kids to the outside folks, I told them, but to everyone on the inside, we were commonplace. That was well received with cheers and a round of applause for five whole minutes. The entire room, all hundred or so of them, really loved it.

I then started to read the poem I had just finished writing.

"Darkness may be gone," I started to read, "but-"

"BOOOOOO!" came from one side of the crowd.

"You suck!" shouted a girl from the bar area.

I tried to read on, ignoring it, but the jeers got louder and more frequent. It became incredibly frustrating, and incredibly unbearable. Insults were shouted left and right. The man who was controlling the lights on the other side of the room gave me the finger.

I had enough.

"You know," I started to angrily shout into the crowd. "This is a place built on punk rock. Punk rock, which is oh so loosely defined, is whatever you want it to be. In this case, I want it to be poetry."

"Your writing is bad and you should feel bad!" shouted a stagehand.

"Poetry sucks!" was shouted by one of the makeshift bartenders.

Bob was watching all of this, not helping matters at all. He could have gotten me out of this situation, but opted to just stand idly by and watch it unfold. Some friend he was.

I was hurt. I was insulted. In what was technically my building, I was being treated like shit. Nobody respected me after the speech. Only during the speech and in spurts throughout my tenure in the Building was I looked at as someone cool. I was sparingly someone who fit in, and at that very moment, I started to resent it.

"If poetry sucks," I angrily went on, "then, by that manner, so does punk rock!"

The room went silent, and then bled into a whirlwind of chaotic noise. People were throwing things left and right. A bottle hit me in the head, thrown by a large man and his cronies, and I was knocked out.

I came to a minute or so later, and that's how I got to be where I am now: Contemplating my actions and my existence. I'm about to be beaten within an inch of my life, or even killed. Had I chose not to follow the ideas and teachings of punk rock, I would be in a much better situation now. Had I actually had a sound idea of how punk rock works in the real world and not on paper, I would have stuck with what I had.

As I'm about to be punched in the face, I realize I had become just another punk rock cliché, aiming to rebel against nurture and succumbing to the nature of the beast. No matter how hard you try to get away from what you were used to, you will always realize that there are a million people in the same boat, and they're all angry and have their own conflicting opinions pooled into one lame consciousness.

This is not what I wanted.