[LEMONS] 4.05.2002
The thing is, I've always wanted a hawk. Mo, that is. Ever since I was a kid. A young kid. Even way back when in elementary school, before I knew what punk was, before I understood anything about it. You know, when I thought Billy Idol was punk. Even then. And now, now I don't really associate it with punk. Because to me, punk is not even remotely about fashion. It's anti-fashion. It certainly isn't the MTV cap like Blink 182 or Sum, er... 12? 25? 963? I forget.
Punk's in your head. "Punk is whatever we made it to be." Punk is nondescript clothes and a nondescript haircut, as long as you do it yourself. It's inside your head. It's a manefesto. An outlook. A refusal. A refusal to be controlled by anything or anyone--be it government, corporation, substance, habit or thought. Punk is Ian Mackaye and Bob Mould, not Johnny Rotten and certainly not (um, I don't know any of the guys in Blink 182's names. Travis? Is that one? Whatever. He'll do. It isn't Travis). Punk is an ideology, not a look. I feel strongly about that. I want to live in a certain way. Which has nothing to do with how I dress. I'm not going to a costume party. I'm not playing dress up.
Having said that, I'm pretty psyched about the hawk. I mean, it's a freaking mohawk. A mohawk! It sort of says "fuck you" without saying anything at all. Except. Not really. Not here. Having a Mohawk when you live in the Haight is decidedly anti-climactic. I'd get more attention and appalled stares wearing Brooks Brothers. Really. And that's sort of a pisser.
But not really.
"Fugazi Fugazi!"
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