I’d like to thank my friend John Tard for inspiring the following
honesty. His own brash brutal frank honesty has always hit me in the
face like a brick wall. From one of his recent posts:
“If I could say one thing then leave this alone. The local music media
and total douchebag music scene constantly talks about punk rock and
punk rock musicians. Sad part is those fucking losers have no idea
what punk rock is …. Any of them would be chewed up and spit out at
a dirty bird gig. Punk Rock isnt about your hair and studs. Any douche
can buy that look . Punk Rock is about attitude and fear. You punk
rock wannabees dont scare anyone…… Glenn grabbed a mic and we
worshipped. He lived the life and we all could see through all the
other fakes. Be proud Glenn… You were and will still be admired for
your simplicity and truth”
I didn’t really know Glenn aside from the notoriety of having danced
for his band Dirty Bird as my debut performance, and having chatted
with him once on the sidewalk of Sneeky Dees. From what I gathered,
he really didn’t like me all that much, but that didn’t stop me from
liking him. I have him on my facebook, and I have watched parts of
his life take place on here, including one fateful day in 2012 where I
was able to intercede and send him an angel. I think he thought I was
a poser. The fact is, when I danced for them I had never heard of
them, the only reason I took the gig was to get my daughter Frances in
to see her favorite band, The Misfits, and get her backstage as my
assistant.
I came on the scene in 2007 to document the “reality” behind the
slicked up crap the media was pushing as “rock’n’roll”. I billed
myself as the Anterockstar, “everything” rockstar as I defined it in
an episode… If you knew me back then, you know how deeply that
experience impacted me. You have to understand one thing… I grew up
watching these things from afar, I had a middle class upbringing where
I wanted for nothing… except adventure.
The fact is, I’m no poser.
John is right, punk rock isn’t in your studs, or the ow’er you’ve
spent on your hayer.
It’s about the bricks on your wall, the shattered cymbals, the
posters, the pins, the t-shirts, the poncho, the wonderwoman dress…
and the head full of memories and stories of survival, and hope, and
blood, and sweat, and tears… and hugs, and the glory of friendship
transcending all that would hold us down… which for some of us is so
tremendous as to sweep us away…
I moved on from punks to politicians in 2009, after Shwatarded. I
thought it was scary when I spent Easter Sunday walking around the
Kathedral in my pink frilly underpants… I learned the fear factor
skyrockets when you are doing it with every cop in Oshawa bearing down
on you… but that it’s funny as fuck if you throw a 6ft bald man
with a 2 ft beard with his tits out into the mix.
I can tell you who the dirtier birds are, but that wouldn’t be ladylike.
I’ve met a few “real” rockstars in my time… and heard stories from
circles. The biggest ones are the spoilder brats.
Gimme a Tard… or a G-Man… or a Queer… anyday.
Or a Dead Kennedy… Hell… I’d rather go through Hell than pick a
nickel up off the sidewalk.
While they haven’t quite given me a cure… they have many many times
provided me with the greatest release a girl could ever ask for…
Release from fear.
And I have it all on video.