from l.a. punk rocker…

It was freezing outside, but none of us could feel the chill. I was at my favorite dive in West Hollywood, Oki-Dog, where all my friends hung out. We were all busy buzzing around, socializing, drinking and laughing about God knows what. These were the best days of my life, but surely, I didn’t realize it at the time. If this was as good as it got, then I was in for some real hard lessons. Life had never been easy and that is what led me to calling myself a punk. I didn’t fit in. Not because I didn’t want to, but the kids in school mocked me for being different. Since I wasn’t willing to run with the pack, I was condemned and bullied, which made me isolate myself even more.

Angry wasn’t something I considered myself to be, but maybe I was.  My expectations weren’t being reached even though I was far from perfect.  I had no idea what I wanted, and taking random photos was my only passion. That wasn’t going to be enough. And I knew it. 

Somehow, I was falling far behind. While others were looking at colleges and planning their futures, I hadn’t a clue. I was sheltered, which I resented, but I wasn’t given any direction as far as an occupation. My parents figured I’d get married and that would be that. My dad suggested taking a typing class in school so I could possibly work as a secretary even after having a family. My parents were not the most college-driven people, but they were hard workers and certainly wanted to give their three daughters a good life. They didn’t plan on Renee being a hippy in the sixties, or Ellen being a surfer chic who smoked pot with her burnout friends, or me, their youngest, becoming a punk rocker who hung out on the streets of Hollywood.

When Andy Warhol slid out of the shiny white limo, nobody paid attention.  Among all of us rebellious teens he stood out, but no one seemed to care. We were all too preoccupied doing our thing. His hair was as white as snow, and his sweater was so bright that he didn’t have to stand under the light to be seen. In an orange day-glow turtleneck, he looked like the artist that he was. He had a style all his own. The man was part grungy and part refined. The manner in which he walked told us that, as did his attitude, a swagger that accompanied his stride. He was used to the finer things in life, but despite that, he still had a taste for walking on the wild side.   

“Was that Andy Warhol in his limo?” my girlfriend Samantha shrieked. “I had to do a double take, but I knew it was him.”

“Sam, there’s no way he could be missed. He was trying to be discreet, but who drives up in a limousine to a place like this?” I laughed under my breath. “Did you notice him checking out the young guys around the parking lot?”

It was always quite a spectacle. All of us colorful people dressed up in costume any day of the week. A movie set couldn’t have clothed us more appropriately. Mohawks, dreadlocks, skinheads, and dyed hair every color of the rainbow. I embraced the creative styles, rebellious vintage clothing that made me feel inspired. Nothing was over-the-top with this gang. The whole scene was an expression, and we were voicing our opinions through our clothing as well as our choices in music. 

Samantha and I appeared immature, giggling over just about everything. From the outside, anyone would have thought we were happy-go-lucky, but that was far from the truth. Kids at Grant, our high school in the San Fernando Valley, were spitting on us during lunch break and calling us all kinds of ugly names. It was hard to take, but we acted tough on the surface and cried buckets when we were alone in our rooms. 

My mother and father were especially strict, but that didn’t stop me from going out whenever I wanted to. I had to work a bit harder than my friends. Sometimes, my lies succeeded and at other times, I had to deal with my parents’ rigidness and being given unfair curfews. Well, I thought it was unfair since my friends were free to do as they pleased.

“Brenda, the streets are no place for a young lady like you. You think nothing can happen, but I know otherwise. We live in a nasty world, honey.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Mom! I’m fine. No one pays attention to us. And I promise I will stay out of trouble.” Even as I said this, I knew she wasn’t buying it for a second. I looked away, but felt her sad eyes gazing at me.

“Mom, I wish you would trust me. There is no reason for you to get so bent out of shape.” I was certain my words weren’t helping any so I decided to change the subject. I thought I should have been given more room to grow. I was seeking independence while my parents fought against it every step of the way. As far as they were concerned, I was a child and wasn’t old enough to express a valid opinion. 

When I was out on the town with my friends, we had so much fun. The sky was the limit.  I was in my element. These people were going through the same struggles as I was. We didn’t even have to talk about it. Their faces depicted their struggles. We were not in with the beautiful people nor were we popular by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe we would have been considered awkward, but that was only because we were not like everyone else. When we were out on the streets, it didn’t matter what we looked like or what problems we had at home or in school. We were okay just the way we were. There was no need to flash fake smiles and then turn away in disgust. We could be as real as we wanted. It seemed safe, yet in reality, Hollywood was far from it.

When I discovered night clubs, I felt like an animal able to roam out of its cage without a leash. I must have glowed like a disco ball.  I was so excited to be surrounded by so many alternative looking people. My girlfriend, Beth, and I grew up together and had gone through one fad to the next, but this was entirely different. This was a lifestyle. It wasn’t just about going to clubs and seeing bands. It was an attitude. It was as if we were given permission to be ourselves. Not having to worry about being criticized for looking out of place. It made being an outsider not such a bad thing. For the first time ever, I belonged to a group that didn’t judge. We were all quirky in our own way and that was accepted. No need to try and be something other than who we really were. Even though I hadn’t a clue what the meaning of my life was, I liked feeling recognized for being an individual. 

That was, of course, before all the drug overdoses and suicides changed everything.