Crank it

While observing the crowds at a recent Friday night punk concert, I was overcome with dueling emotions: a longing for that teenaged joy of defiance, independence, and staying out late; and, of course, a contented relief that I'm done with that phase of cocky ignorance. I now know that I would much rather know how little I know about the world than be foolishly arrogant with my opinions. Still, those days were fun while they lasted...

People who know me intimately may be raising their eyebrows at the notion of my rebellious past. While there have been some debatably punk-rock moments (I swear, dying my long blond hair magenta days before my cousin's wedding was an ACCIDENT), overall my teenaged years were tame. What did I have to fight against? My parents nearly always encouraged independent thinking, my teachers generally adored me, and society had no qualms with allowing an upper-middle class white girl to go to college and pursue her red-white-and-blue dreams. I had nothing in common with the rebellious voices other teens enjoyed, needed to identify themselves with. The most I had struggled with in my life was an episode or two of unrequited, undeveloped love. Why wouldn't I, even now, be more interested in the lyrics of Kelly Clarkson than in those of the Clash?

I do hit those days, though—those kill-me-now, I'm-on-the-edge days when my blood boils. Today was one of those days. I was inexplicably fixating on everything wrong with my life: I have no money to buy a gym membership, my boss makes me do stuff, I have to go to Planned Parenthood and I don't want people to think I'm poor or getting an abortion, the wind is messing up my hair, and so forth. I was pissed off and in agony. Walking to my car after work, stepping in puddles and getting my pant hems wet, I could feel the anger just rise higher and higher, my face was getting warm, and I knew I had to release some of the emotional pressure somehow. Immediately after I closed myself into the car, I grabbed the steering wheel and screamed.

As soon as it had happened, I regreted it. No one had seen or heard me—that wasn't the problem. I had heard my yell, and it sounded, even reverberating against the confined glass surfaces, stale. Contrived. Embarrassingly dramatic. The silence that followed seemed to hold an eternity of judgment on my moment of ridiculous anger. I thought of the mowhawked, chain-ladden children at the punk concert, throwing their beers at the stage, screaming obsentities senselessly, thrashing their bodies against each other—and why? Because they hated social norms? Because life was unfair? Because they had a curfew?

I hung my head thinking how similarly juvenile I could be, needing to scream my anger at nothing. Then something remarkable happened. I turned my key in the ignition, and as my engine sprang to life, so did the cd of "Rock Band" songs compiled by my boyfriend for me. The bass line throbbed, drums pounded, vinyl scratched, and Adrock SCREAMED:

I—CAN'T STAND IT
I KNOW YOU PLANNED IT
IMA SET IT STRAIGHT
THIS WATERGATE
CAN'T STAND ROCKIN WHEN I'M IN HERE
'CAUSE YOUR CRYSTAL BALL AIN'T SO CRYSTAL CLEAR

I can't say that the lyrics were a comfort to me. Honestly, after singing this song numerous times for our virtual band, I still can't say I know what the Boys were after with these words. I will say this: the mere presence of angry-sounding language, noise, pacified me. What I was lacking in the car before I turned on the music was a justifying response to my outcry. And perhaps that's what punk rock is to kids: it's a companion piece for their annoyances, something to share the dialogue, nod along and add a "Yeah, life sucks" where needed. People want their music to respond to them, not the other way around. No wonder people categorize their music in mood-based playlists.

Or maybe I just can't express myself without an audience, even one that can't really hear me. (Note that I've never kept a personal diary, but a blogger apparently I am.)

House style

I've been an editorial intern at the Museum of Contemporary Art for three days. I'm quite astonished that no one has come to my desk to critique my unconventional use of proofreading marks (my scratches lack the delightful grace of the real editors), or to correct my insistence on deleting the serial comma ("oh, that's ok here!"). Little by little, I am discovering the right way to edit, the house style according to the MCA. Though having the freedom to make mistakes and the trust of my supervisor ought to be self-assuring and exhilirating, a large portion of me pines for a boss who explains everything I'd ever need to know...no. I don't need anyone holding my hand. Shame on self-doubting me.

My background in writing and editing, instead of granting me the confidence I need, seems to spotlight my inferiority. I fear that with every mistake of mine the head editor finds, she and the rest of her staff will mock me, my school, my degree, my home state. I know that it's extremely egocentric to assume everyone is both noticing and judging my every move. It's just easier on yourself to assume that you're being judged instead of ignored.

And I'm honestly less concerned about my abilities as an editor (I just graduated, how much am I supposed to know, anyway?) than I am about my appearance, my wit, my knowledge of what is and isn't cool. I'm probably the youngest person in the office at 23 (or possibly tied with one other person), and yet I feel the most removed from what is and isn't the appropriate speech and dress of the young and hip. I'm the only one in the office who will wear dress pants (though less and less frequently), and even with my boyfriend's sloppy hoodie thrown over me, I'm still the preppiest person within sight. By far. A much more MCA dress would be an ironicly ugly grandpa sweater over pencil-thin denim (the staff actually had the second annual "ugly sweater day" the week I started). I sense myself as out of place as those serial commas.

My friend Ann, working in a posh independent advertising office, told me a similar story of how much more sophisticated and witty everyone who works with her is. But I would be wise to take her optimistic viewpoint on my own workroom situation:

"I mean, what if I looked around the office, and I was obviously the coolest person in the room? How depressing would that be?!"