James Hendricks

It was the thing to do back in the day: hop on a bus to the city, or catch a ride with a friend, and grab a fake ID from one of the shady vendors that lined Times Square. In terms of illegality, it was on a scale on par with buying beer while underage, hence the phony driver's license. Hand skills were also highly in demand. If you were good enough as a forger (and I was), you could erase the info on someone's license and type over the last number that placed you as a minor. If you still had a ways to go, and you needed two numbers changed on your birth date, it was a harder sell.

Bouncers were pretty savvy, especially when the drinking age in New York was 18, and that was the glorious age my oldest brother fell under: a time when you could be a teen and drink in a grownup bar. It seemed less a crime to fudge one number when you didn't have that much time left to go, anyway. For me and my middle bro, it was way more difficult to get away with, because they raised the legal age to 21, and there was absolutely no way I could pass for someone older. I barely passed for a teenager as a kid, let alone someone who could amble up to a bar and order a real cocktail. Besides that, I didn't really like the taste of alcohol.

My brothers passed their fake ID between the two of them, because in the dark of night, photos were less important than the age. Woe to you if you got a smart guy at the door, like someone who knew how to shine a flashlight underneath the unlaminated paper license to read the real numbers under your typewriter job. Then, you could be really fucked; like, hauled down to the station fucked. And any parent from this area who gets a call like that at night does major damage to your psyche for an indiscretion like that. You don't wanna know what strong-ass parents from the Bronx and BedStuy do for discipline, although by now, I'm sure you have good guesses, most of which is now considered illegal to do to a child under current laws. You could get punched right across the face, like my bros did for really serious infractions, for lying about a sleepover to go see a Stones show in Philly. It was really bad and very scary, and that was the whole point. 

http://gothamist.com/2013/11/22/1970s_photos_show_a_dirty_old_city.php#photo-1

We lived in very dangerous waters, and my parents figured it was better to be scared of them than us taking crack addicts on the subway lightly, and in many ways, I didn't disagree. It's hard to come down on the strictness of parents terrified of being knifed on a train during daylight commuting times, or the hellish cast a flaming garbage can had at night on the West Side Highway, intimating the fiery pits of hell, which is exactly where you'd be if you broke down on the wrong side of town, late in the middle of the night, where no one (not even the cops) dared to go. We faced big-time foes, not some tweaked-out little "wigger" with hipster neck tats, a sideways ball cap, and a copped bad attitude, like a suburban kid from Mount Vernon who took the Metro North into "the city".

In comparison to that, who wouldn't need a drink? We reasoned to ourselves as a group that it was insane to be involuntarily pressed into military service without being able to take a stiff drink beforehand. We could die for our country as bullet fodder, but we sure as fuck couldn't dull the pain from it. War before alcohol: an American example of our tendencies towards violence over drink, if ever there was. Doubt me? I've seen movies in the past few weeks (new releases, too), that toss real children around like they're nothing but rag dolls, or they used sled dogs like they are trash to be jerked around on a leash for some stupid fucking movie, with one star punching and pushing away an obviously real animal. Disgusting stuff, and not exactly the red wine with cheese my parents liked to have sometimes.

Compared to a climate like that, an older brother with a penchant for really good music could only mean one thing to me: the mischievous spirit of the 60s lived on and still rebelled, every time some dumb dick bouncer with a high school dropout education and a guido fucking attitude didn't discern what any of our crowd knew at a glance: we were (and always will be) Jimi Hendrix fans. R.I.P., my native brother. And fuck y'all with your weird priorities. Rock lives on forever! We will never really die, because the truly gifted never really do.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimi_Hendrix

(For Jim)

"We want the airwaves, baby!"

A bunch of loud-mouth, no-talent "nobodies" from Queens, N.Y.

 
Part of any genuine rebel movement is acquiring attention, sometimes by any means necessary, although the intention is to always have a firmly authoritative foothold on your audience's consciousness, which falls outside of a teenager's general parvenu. It's the main reason that my first outsider culture, punk, had to grow up. Heat, energy, and movement is fast fun, but after awhile, noise just makes your head hurt. Musicians with long legs in the game learned to play their instruments properly, and after my wild excesses of high school and college, I was sick of the stupid drunk parties. Raping frat boys and vomiting girls are not people one aspires to be around as an adult.

And so I moved on from my infamous New York State party school because I had enough, and I was bored with easy classes. It was a mature decision, and it cost me a lot to make it: studio credits well-earned but not accepted in the Ivy League, friends not confident enough to make it on their own without my constant steadying support, plus a boyfriend or two. I considered it (and still do) and great bargain to become educated, because the kids who couldn't follow along with me would be hangers-on, anyway. They'd hate my new life, studies, and interests. 

It opened up parts of my personality they didn't know (or like). My person changed, grew, and adapted, while my old friends peaked, stopped growing, and then just stopped, sometimes living. It made them extremely nervous around me, and they sought to sabotage my new life violently; a new life that was shifting in front of their eyes. 

One friend accused me of having a totally new signature as proof of my extreme changes, though in reality, it was brought on by being constantly busy as an apprentice in publishing (which she then mocked by prank-calling me at work to say that my new house was for nobodies, a sure sign of threatened youth) and my easy adaption to adulthood. My hand continues to develop into a busy-person's scrawl, not unlike the handwriting of a doctor who writes all day long.

Another friend wanted to sabotage my new group of friends by sleeping with a guy who used to date this girl I set him up with at school, then flirting with my boyfriend while he hung about my aunt's place, looking for a life in the city. In any case, I evolved past all of them, which was their great fear: not being able to ride on my coattails any more for the free fun ride.

One of the worst let-downs (though not totally unexpected) was my best friend from high school and SUNY, who decried me as a "sell-out" for my beginning salary of $17,500 a year at St. Martins' Press; a place I could only afford to work and compete with trust fund English Lit majors by using my aunt's place as a crash-pad. She tried to position it as someone who was looking out for my best interest as a children's book artist, though in reality, she wanted an object to show her students in class, to boost her rep as a new teacher.

The RISD girl was even worse. After giving her a place to stay that was huge and practically rent-free, she also chafed about my new learnin' and a-changin' and a-growin', by ripping out some ad from The New Yorker about a therapist specializing in "creative" people who stopped producing, because she couldn't torpedo the new production and design skills I was learning in the city if she didn't have layouts and drawings to look at.

It didn't stop at work or at home, either. Once I reached the coveted Art Department as a Manager who could do business and book design, the claws came out of the bitchy SVA show-pony crowd, which told me (yet again) how threatening I was to them and their system. 
A well-known Creative Director (then, an Art Director on the rise) has never stopped gunning after me. He bragged about setting balls in motion to harness, control, then humiliate, demean, and fire me at work by trying to position me with a lower skill set than the other one trick ponies at the stable. He told me dismissively in front of a group of designers that my name really meant "Secretary", after reading some pop culture book on name meanings (and repeating it often), because I was behind the slick city crowd in desktop publishing skills, but way ahead in life, and art. It was unnerving.

But all the madness I went through was purposeful and driven, though not always clearly defined enough for my competitors. How do I know it worked? You're reading it right now, because I AM THE MEDIA, and I have made it all the way to the top. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, suckas. Shout that from the mountaintops, baby.

"Generation X" by Doug Copeland for St. Martin's Press (© 1990's): produced by Twisne Fan, Marie Doucette, and Curt Alliaume in several consecutive, co-running, differently-colored versions. 

"We Want The Airwaves" 

Nine to five, and five to nine
Ain't gonna take it, it's our time
We want the world, and we want it now
We're gonna take it anyhow

We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves, baby
If rock is gonna stay alive

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

Where's your guts and will to survive
And don't you wanna keep rock 'n' roll music alive
Mr. Programmer, I got my hammer
And I'm gonna smash my, smash my brain!

We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves
We want the airwaves, baby
If rock is gonna stay alive

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

Oh yeah
well alright
Let's rock
tonight
All night

We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves airwaves
We want the airwaves, baby 

Righteous Indignation

Killing in the name of!
Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Huh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of

And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
But now you do what they told ya
Well now you do what they told ya

Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, 

 they're the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge,

 they're the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, 

 they're the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, 

 they're the chosen whites

Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses
Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of

And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control (7 times)
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they told ya!

Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, 

 they're the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, 

 they're the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, 

 they're the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, 

 they're the chosen whites
Come on!

Yeah! Come on!

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!
Motherfucker!
Uggh!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Righteous_indignation
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rage_Against_the_Machine