I just remembered that 10 years ago Today, yes, this very day, my unicorn-head graduated from High School. Never got my diploma because I never returned my library books. And today, just as then-times, I am about to walk to the same Kinkos at which Hit it or Quit it was birthed via stolen copy counters and favors from disheveled band people ( in exchange for revwing their aweful demos, which, were either - no exception - four-track noise that mixed children speaking in french with guitar squalling or were notable only because someone in the band had played in a band with Grant Hart once ( not Husker Du, natch)) -- and birth a tiny fanzine a new.
My life cycle is only slightly more elaborate than a tadpole's.
I may have mentioned, but Minneapolis is a punk motherfucking town. I am in the coffee shop, where the wireless is, which serves as my office when I am here. I am the person with the least tattoos here, save for the pregnant lady with the yoga mat. I do not remember Minneapolis being this punk, but then again, when I left it had just gotten uncool to like, say Mudhoney, and I was rocking homemade Unwound shirts, and punk was Olympia-fying ("punk can be anything! Not just mohawks!") and no one would talk to me anyways, so what do I know. But Minneapolis-now is rife with face-hand-neck-inking. Someone told me about a study they read once, about how people with hand and neck tattoos have a 80 times the rate of dying via murder or suicide then the general pop., who do not have the Black Flag bars on thier knuckles and discolored and scarred flaming magwheels wrapping their neck. I look at people with hand tattoos and think "It's just a matter of time for you!" -- anticipating the whole town shuddering to a stop in a pool of their own congealing blood by summers end.