SLC Punk! Page #6

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somebody different.

Difference creates dispute.

Dispute is a reason to fight.

Now, to fight is a reason to feel pain.

Life is pain.

So to fight, with reason...

is to be alive with reason.

Final analysis.

To fight:
a reason to live.

Problems and contradictions:

I am an anarchist.

I believe that there should be

no rules, only chaos.

Fighting appears to be chaos, and when

we slam in a pit at a show, it is.

But when we fight for a reason,

like rednecks, there is a system.

We fight for what we stand for... chaos.

But fighting is a structure.

Fighting is to establish power,

power is government...

and government is not anarchy.

Government is war,

and war is fighting.

The circle goes like this:

Our redneck skirmishes...

are cheaper versions

of conventional warfare.

War implies extreme government...

because wars are fought to

enforce rules or ideals, even freedom.

But other people's ideals

forced on someone else...

even if it is something like freedom,

is still a rule.

Not anarchy.

This contradiction was becoming

clear to me in the fall of '85.

Even as early as my first party,

why did I love to fight?

I framed it,

but I still don't understand it.

It goes against my beliefs

as a true anarchist, but there it was.

Competition, fighting, capitalism...

government, the system.

It's what we always did.

Rednecks kicked the sh*t out of punks,

punks kicked the sh*t out of mods...

mods kicked the sh*t out of skinheads,

skinheads took out the metal guys...

the metal guys beat the living sh*t

out of new wavers...

and the new wavers did nothing...

they were the new hippies.

What was the point?

Final summation?

None.

So I'll just close up

it you guys give me a second.

Dude, she's, like, responsible,

you know?

She's a businesswoman.

She owns her own store.

She's making a contribution

to society.

Bob, she owns a head shop.

She sells bongs, Bob.

- No, no, no. It's not what you sell.

- Blah, blah, blah.

Why do you got to be so cynical?

Why don't you grow up?

You b*tch!

- Hey, Mark.

- Hey. Great party last week.

- We aim to please.

- Animals.

I've always loved animals.

It was a little violent

at the end.

Violent.

Look who's talking, Mr. NRA.

- What are you doing here?

- Actually, I came by to say I'm otf.

- Where are you going?

- I'm going to Miami.

- What the hell is in Miami?

- Hell is in Miami.

Don't worry. I'll be back.

You can always count on that.

Why would you ever come back

to a place like this, man?

It's like any other place, Bob...

people, houses, roads, cars.

What else do you think

is out there?

- Freedom.

- Yeah.

Freedom.

It's not out there.

Freedom is another way

ot saying "death."

Know what I mean?

You're pretty f***in' weird, man.

You know that?

- I'm ott.

- All right, man. See ya.

Hey, Mark,

if you ever get lonely...

or if you ever need someone

to talk to...

Bob's there tor you.

- F*** you!

- And that was the last we saw of Mark.

Never came back from Florida,

if that was where he was going.

Rumor flew around...

that he had died in a plane crash like

he was supposed to all those years ago.

Anyways, that was Salt Lake.

People came in, and they went out.

Oh, no.

F*** you.

So, Trish, are we hangin' out later?

I'll tell you what, Bob.

You're coming with me.

- I am?

- That's right.

- I own you now.

- Oh, yeah. That's right.

I torgot to tell you.

I sold myselt to Trish tor 36 bucks.

Thirty-six bucks.

Wow, Trish, that's a good deal.

Salt Lake City.

Land of the dead sea.

Zion, as the Mormons call it.

It really is the holy land.

See you, Stevo.

You can't atford me, old man.

- How are things going these days?

- Not so bad.

- How are the ladies treatin' ya?

- The ladies?

I tell you, the women in this town

are so miserable...

I'd give anything

to get the hell out.

You know, you gave up a good thing

in my mother, sir.

Maybe so.

So, good news.

The world is coming to its end.

- Better.

- Oh. Ow, sh*t!

Better than that?

The people are revolting.

- You...

- Yeah?

- have been invited...

- Uh-huh?

to attend Harvard Law School.

Yeah.

Dad, you and I really gotta work

on your detinition ot good news.

Steven, this is great news.

You've already gone through pre-law.

Why not tinish the process,

and in the best possible way?

That's so funny,

because, gosh, Father...

don't even remember applying

to Harvard Law.

- I applied tor you.

- You mean you signed my name?

- Yeah.

- Hey, congratulations, old man!

Hope you enjoy your second tour

ot Harvard Law School.

Steven, are you going

to walk around like this torever?

You went to school. You got

great grades. What else is there?

I cheated, Dad.

I cheated all through college.

Oh, that's right.

Yeah, you cheated. But why?

You obviously cared enough

about your grades to do well.

I know you, Steve.

You're just like me.

I'm like you, maybe,

but not completely.

Then why pre-law?

Why not liberal science?

Why go at all?

I studied law

'cause I wanted to learn...

how completely full ot sh*t

your lite's ambition was.

That's crazy.

You know that.

You know what I think it is?

I think you've become a fascist.

- A fascist?

- You're a Nazi.

I'm Jewish.

How can I be a Nazi?

That's the worst. Dad, look at this.

What kind of car is this?

This would be a Porsche.

A Porsche that you bought

at a Volkswagen dealership.

Volkswagen.

Right? For the people.

Who designed it?

Who made that possible?

Let me give you a hint. Adolf Hitler.

- It's just a car, okay?

- Absolutely.

I completely understand that point.

But it's a car that was built,

designed and created...

out ot the blood and pain

ot your people.

- Let me take you to lunch.

- Okay.

Hang on.

My dad wasn't all bad.

He just, you know, had no clue.

I liked to bust his balls.

What pissed me off, though, was,

he was right about one thing.

Why did I do so well in school?

I didn't want to.

I mean, I tried not to give a sh*t.

I knew they were just trying to mold me

into cannon fodder for their wars.

And I knew

that meaning lie elsewhere.

But somehow I studied,

and somehow I got the grades...

and now, somehow, I was accepted

to a f***ing Ivy League school.

Last place on the planet

for a guy like me.

I mean, I wouldn't go there

unless it was to set it on fire.

Hey, what are you staring at?

Did you get a good picture?

Now, there was this issue

of a lifelong struggle with poverty...

which was beginning to cause

reflection to myself...

after I had run into someone

from my past a few days earlier.

You guys wouldn't happen to have

a dollar or a little somethin'?

Oh, sh*t. Sean!

- Yeah?

- Hey, it's me. Stevo.

- Bob!

- No, Stevo!

Stevo!

How you doing, man?

There you go.

You have no idea who I am, do you?

Remember?

High school. Mohawk.

Yeah, you had the tuckin' mohawk.

- Yeah. Punk!

- How are you doing?

Good. How are you doing?

- I heard they put you away.

- But they let me out. I'm a tree man.

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