The incidents that signify the end of a punk’s life are varied, unpredictable, and often smelly, but there is no discharge from the scene as humiliating and dishonorable as having your parents utter the four most cred-destroying words in the English dictionary, “We’re proud of you.”
It’s hard to believe the same fatigue-clad woman I saw drinking shots called Montezuma’s Revenge out of a bowling shoe in exchange for unlimited jukebox rights is the same woman her father now calls the “apple of his eye.” I wonder if she wrote Sarah “Subhuman” Higgins on the cover letter she used to land her cushy new advertising job, or instead opted for something more corporate-friendly.
Any true punk will tell you that receiving a promotion within the 9-to-5 world is actually seen as a demotion in terms of integrity and autonomy, so I can only imagine how secretly disappointed in herself she must have been when she was promoted from an administrative assistant to chief creative officer of a major magazine within just a year. You can’t tell me the poser-itis doesn’t eat away at her while she and her husband drink delicious protein-based smoothies and map out plans to install heated bathroom floors.
When I knew Sarah “Subhuman” Higgins, her only instruments of foreplay were a rubber paddle and spiked heals, but word on the street is that she’s traded it all in for a guy named Milton who has probably never even shed a drop of blood in a church hall punk show. If you lack the subcultural wherewithal to discuss local scene beef and that time Cro-Mags played in the park, how are you supposed to get your woman aroused?
God forbid my parents, step-parents, or any of the myriad of neighbors who helped to raise me dared to say “I’m proud of you,” and wrapped me in a warm hug, I would break their arms and put them in a sleeper hold. Lucky for them, I’ve never been remotely close to encountering such a situation.
