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By Root 547 0

already in inchoate preverbal practice. Punk is something worth destroying posthaste. Hopefully this article will speed that process. Punk is being old and smart enough to know that your girlfriend is too young but not having the balls to kick her out. Like when she keeps saying “Oh, I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOU” everytime you say some ridiculous alkie crazy thing only Bukowski has a right to, and instead of attacking her or just withdrawing you chuckle indulgently. Punk is playing father to teen pussy when you should be a shark but haven’t got the teeth. Punk is getting stuck months later like the old curmudgeon as she chases local deejays at press parties in front of you and all you can say is maybe she’ll grow out of it because you love the taste of her twat and the fact that no other woman will fuck all nite to “Raw Power.” Punk is when you throw her over and pick up a barfloozy same day take her home drink gin fuck and in the nite she menstruates all over your bed and in the morning you drink more gin. That is when you know you are growing from punk into what some people think of as a man. At least some blood marks the spot, like Grauman's prints or the hollows of Pompeii. You don’t feel like such a punk no more with all that history under you. I suppose that's when you grow up to Jon Landau productions. Either that or a dusty window and an eye that needs a toothpick.

New Wave, August 1977

13Lancelot Link and Isis were two beloved Saturday-morning kiddie-show heroes; the former was a “super chimp,” while the latter was a “super woman.”

Back Door Men

and Women in Bondage

There is a very good reason why I am writing and you are reading the reels of jabowock verbiage you are presently feasting your faded eyes on. The reason for me is that I am totally and terminally fed up with all the established regular commercial paying better distributed Rock magazines because none of them will allow me to jack off in print which obviously is a crime against true nature. Creem has become a repository of clumsy gibberish written by people who really haven’t got the chops nor have they (I’m not afraid to say it) paid the dues necessary to make any reader but maybe their mothers and nursemaids actually purgatory their eyes with the flattened jiz they’re publishing in there, in other words (I’m not ashamed to say this either, in fact I have no shame about anything at all, because I have no ego, you should see me sing my songs onstage some time but I’m not gonna use this space to hype myself because John Mendelsohn was pathetic enough to be a lesson to the next thirteen generations so hopefully you’ll just be lucky to see me vomit up my fantasies on one of your local stages sometime)… where was I, I’m getting lost… that's one reason (one more) I like writing for rags like this, I can get lost and nobody cares, because you were lost in the first place, otherwise you wouldn’t even be publishing a magazine like this, I mean what do you think “punk rock” and all attendant flapdoodle is about if not being lost and not only being upfront about it but actually proud… like this gay Junior College Speech Professor said to me one time with a knowing gleam in his eyes, “I’ve had some of my best times when I was lost” and that ain’t what I mean either, I mean don’t mis-read into it because I ain’t paranoid but obviously your magazine is not directed at the After Dark audience, which is good, straights direly need some intimate organ of communication besides Dear Abby which as any fool knows is not straight at all, in fact one of the most inspiring things to me about the proliferation of new fanzines is not only that they’re supporting all the great new groups all over the world but that I know they’re written published art-directed linotyped printed proofread etc. by people who spend a considerable amount of their waking hours jerking off, be they men/boys or women/girls. Which by the way if we really all don’t want to ever grow up we better concoct some new descriptive nouns for our persuasions—how about puds and bitches? I realize