From fight the power to pay the power bill
a manifesto of middle age
I grew up in the suburbs in the 1980s.
Back then, skateboarding was against the law.
So if you were like me—of the skateboarding persuasion—you spent a lot of time running from cops.
Skateboard. Spiked hair. Sex Pistols T-Shirt and Ralph Lauren jacket that mom bough, only now covered in safety pins, cheap studs and spikes.
A bunch of bougie boys from the suburbs pretending to be Sid Vicious.
Yes, we were that thick.
Back then, cops were terrible and heroin was cool.
None of us did it. None of us were cool enough to shoot smack.
We saw it on screen but none of use where nihilistic enough to give up on SOCIETY that completely.
Dudes would imply they’d maybe try but, they only do ‘natural drugs’ like weed or mushrooms. Also?—they were “afraid of needles.” Like that was the only thing stopping them.
And the music we listened to?
Public Enemy. Fight the Power!
None of us were fighting the power. Unless the power happened to be a projection of all our flaccid, impotent daddy issues.
Which, let’s be honest, it was.
I was talking to an old friend recently. He was lamenting that he’s no longer in a position to fight the good fight and tear down society.
Anyone know someone like this?
Middle-class kid. Professional parents. Grew up in comfort. Started “slumming it” in his early twenties and never fully recovered.
You know the type by the uniform:
Plaid shirts. Bushy beard. Rancid armpits that combine a diet high in garlic, a lifestyle low in bathing, and hippie deodorant. They use the crystal…
“I just delude myself with crystals and I can’t smell a thing!”
And underneath it all? You know this motherfucker would bathe in patchouli if his workplace didn’t have a scent-free policy.
He was lamenting what his life had become.
“I used to Rage Against the Machine, and now I AM the machine.”
I told him: “Me too. And with the age my kids are, I’m clearly nothing more than an instant teller.”
I could easily Rage Against the Machinenow.
Can’t you see it? Me at home, starting a mosh pit in the dining room, singing along:
“Bankrupt in the name of!”
And instead of “Fuck you I won’t do what you told me,” it would be:
“Fuck you I won’t pay for your cell phone!”That didn’t slow his whining.
He said: “I want to be the change that I seek in the world.”
I told him: Start with yourself.
Stop drinking.
Quit smoking.
Start exercising.
None of this landed.
Apparently, his “be the change” meant impressing chicks enough with his virtue that they might miss the fact that he’s a stinky, out of shape, middle-aged alcoholic.
Fight the good fight. Battle to the bottom of de feat at the end of your body and show up in pants before noon!