I don’t know how we two pip-squeaks were able to get into the Roxy, but in, we got. The room was tightly packed, up close and intense. The people looked very different. A new tribe, our new tribe. To our horror and glee, a tall skinny punk boy standing next to us shoved a large safety pin into his forearm and closed it without even blinking. There were strange sounds calling to us. All energy and rage. No one was singing about cars, chicks or their dicks. After that show, we never went to an arena rock show again. By hook or crook, we got ourselves to Sunset Boulevard or Santa Monica, often riding on Lynn’s tiny yellow Flying Dutchman moped. We drove from Glendale, whizzing through the cool night air of Forest Lawn Drive, to Highland Avenue to descend into the lights and buzz of the strip.
This was our revolution. That summer, our long hair fell to the floor in chunks. Spiked hair, black, orange, peroxide white. Cleopatra black-cat eyeliner, hand sewing our thrift store jeans to make them straighter. Heavy steel-toe black biker boots and the heat. Always that relentless California sunshine spoiling the mood and the make-up. We found things randomly. Seeing another punk and following them around town. Another one of us! We were rare.