I fell in love with the weird, the chaotic.
I mean.
Have you ever considered what the shaky man at the end of the street was screaming?
Have you ever found order in the chaos of a Jackson *******?
Einstein may have been famous for E=MC squared,
but he also determined that S=KlogW.
Order tends to move to disorder as time progresses.

Tell me you don’t warm at the sight of a toddler with ice cream down her dress, sitting in a mud pile with only one sock on one foot, one pigtail half done, and one smile plastered across her indifferent face.
The road of exes I’ve left behind is wrought with Star Trekkies, cult members, and bi polar *******,
but here I stand begging for more.
My BFF Becky,
who’s really my therapist Karen,
says I’m seeking inspiration.
But the shaky man on the corner who sometimes thinks he’s God
says that I’m Galileo.
And I’d rather believe him.

We’re on October break, which is a 6-day weekend. For the last two weeks, everyone’s been making plans.
“What do you think of Cancún?” Sunny’d asked me.
“The only people going to Mexico are on the cheap or trapped in a trunk.” I’d answered.

After two weeks of weighing every conceivable terrestrial destination, amenities and available attractions, we (there’s six of us suitemates - Sunny, Lisa, Leong, Anna, Sophy and I) settled on good old Manhattan, where you’ll find us in adjoining-suites atop the Plaza hotel (thanks, Grandmère).

Things went CrA-CrA (crazy with a capital K) right off the bat. Sunny, as it turns out, KNOWS people here, and we decided to ‘walk on the wild side’ for one or two nights and check out a few fem-facing clubs. Now I know how sensitive we all are about pronouns, and what-not, but I’m going to try to simplify for a broad audience. These are lesbian clubs.

One thing I like about Music is sharing it with friends. Communities have always formed around art in whatever form. There are book clubs, film societies, Trekkies, Swifties and apparently, wild-*** lesbian dance clubs.

On our first night in Manhattan, the sun had barely set when Sunny said, “Ok then, let’s go!” And off we went to a “Femmquerade Ball”. I think that’s a combo of ‘feminine, queer and masquerade.’ She’d told us beforehand what to wear, “Take sweatshirts, those will come off - it gets hot in there - otherwise t-shirts, jeans and ballet flats - no purses.”

You know, I thought punk music was dead, ideating its death somewhere in the 90s. I was wrong, it’s ALIVE.
You know, when everyone’s feelin’ it, when two hundred people are rocking as one, club-life is transcendent. The club vibe was interesting too, there was a safety and freedom to it. You're in a crowded club, somehow without the limitations of the banal male gaze, with its sexist expectations. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I don’t think music has to have a message to earn its place as art. Folk romance music’s ok, jazz has its reach, opera is still happening and of course there’s regular dance music - cause sometimes, you’ve just gotta jiggle it.

That being said, there’s a saying that “Punk is truth” and that comes from its rawness and authenticity.
Punk has a ‘low barrier of entry’, as the academics say. It’s a game anyone can play. Punk isn’t autotuned, the bands use second-hand guitars, there are no synthesizers, the speaker stacks were shared, the vocalists lacked training, and I’d guess that none of the players were burdened with unpaid Juilliard tuition.

Punk’s always been outsider art, a scream along, you can’t go wrong, fire and every punk song is a garage invitation to joyously rage. As we drove to the club, Sunny had said, “Think of punk as dance music without inhibitions. It's straightforward and unapologetically for the people who can’t bother to keep to the dance steps and aren’t above getting in each other’s precious space.” Every word of that was true.

Punk lyrics are about the problems and issues of real-world people. It’s a roll call, a manifesto, implicit and explicit in stylish screaming. I’ve always called it scream-0. The point being, that while the rest of the world is restrained, heteronormative and reduced to a corporate gray backdrop, there’s still room for comradery, agency, outrage, pumpkin-Jello-shots (@ $16 each) and a bit of winking fun.

We DID have fun but I’ve been hoarse all day today. As we’d climbed into the car, last night, for the ride back to the Plaza, Mr. & Mrs Charles pointedly removed ear plugs from their ears - the kind they give to airport workers who work around jet engines all day. Charles laughed and said something, but I couldn’t hear him.
My ears were still ringing.
.
.
Songs for this
Rebel Girl by Bikini ****
Hash Pipe by Weezer