I know I said I would continue the Zoo Series and cover the third category of men, but I would like to take a moment and confess something. I can do that, right? We’re friends, aren’t we? I can confess something to you and not regret it, right? Oh what is the difference, no one is reading these anyways. My confession is: My name is Guy Stefani, and I am a former punk. The second part of this confession is that I miss being a punk, pretty much, all the time. Honestly though, punk chose me, I never chose it. I can not tell you what first drew me to wearing black clothes. I do not remember what made me gravitate towards Marlboro Lights and leather jackets. There are pairs of black boots in the back of my closet that I do not even remember buying. Ok, well, I can kind of explain that. During my early twenties I was doing a lot of networking. By networking I mean sleeping around. Nine times out of ten, when the early light of morning started to crack through the blinds of some guy’s bedroom window, it was a race to grab some clothes off the floor and get out the door. I had a job to get to, or a class to sit through. At one point of my life about eighty percent of my wardrobe had been generously donated from the carpets of my one time partners in crime. I guess that solves where some of those boots came from, but I still can not put my finger on the exact reason I was magnetized towards the punk lifestyle. Many people would argue that I was never a proper punk, that I was merely a faux punk, trying to fake it until I make it. There is some validity to their point of view; for starters I have never done drugs, nor do I ever intend to. I have never been in a rock band, nor can I play the guitar. I have fairly common piercings on my body and, currently, only one tattoo. So, was I the poster child for sex, drugs and rock and roll? No, probably not. What earned me my platinum level punk membership card was two things really: how good I looked when smoking a cigarette, and the fact that I could wear the hell outta a pair of dark denim skinny jeans.
You see some people, even lifetime smokers, still look awkward when holding a cigarette or exhaling smoke. I see them all the time on the streets and the sidewalks. They hold it with the wrong fingers or as if the cigarette is too heavy or weighing them down. Those are the ones that are faking it. If you ever see a person smoking a cigarette and the FAIL meme pops into your head, they are doing it wrong. The first faker is the person that is doing it to look cool; these are the pretty girls who want to prove they have an edge or are more intellectual than they really are. My dears, please just get a library card or start wearing a watch; but do not attempt to boost your credentials by lamely huffing a cigarette. The second type of person, who might be failing at smoking, would be the addicts. I smoked on and off for about six years, and not once did I ever crave a cigarette. They were merely a prop to me, or a tool to either attract or detract attention. I smoked to pass the time during a boring conversation or to just pass the time in general. Sitting on the front steps of one of my old apartment buildings and smoking was where I did some of my best thinking. I would watch the clouds pass in the sky and inhale and exhale until I had found a solution to my problem. The Golden Girls had cheesecake, I had Marlboros. I guess you could say it was a form of meditation. What really mattered was that I could hold and smoke a cigarette in a fashion that would have made James Dean himself envious. Knowing how to select a cigarette from a box, place it in your lips, flick the lighter and steal that first inhale to start the fire, that dear readers, is a lost art; but it was an art that I did perfectly. Smoking like a film noir detective would be the first half of my punk platinum status induction, but we all know the clothes make the man.
I very distinctly remember the first time I bought skinny jeans. They were a dark wash pair of Social Collision skinnys from Hot Topic. May that store rest in peace. I just knew they looked good on me; I had the legs for them. After a while, the one pair multiplied into several pairs ( just like rabbits ) and before I knew it I had a briar patch full of skinny jeans. The jeans, coupled with my new found love of yoga and lounges, really showed off my stems; and it seemed everyone took notice. It wasn’t long before skinnys and t-shirts became my standard, finished off with a leather jacket and boots. It was easy, I wore it well, it looked good on me and it heavily attracted the type of man I was fixated on back then. Did you already figure it out? Yes, you guessed it, my fatal attraction to peacocks was heightened by the punk perspective. The sneak attack that was part of all my doomed punk peacock relationships was that I knew I would one day out grow my boots. Eventually I would put it all away and start dressing like a grown up. The skinny jeans would be replaced by chinos, the tees covered up with button downs and the cigarettes traded for a Manhattan, or, whatever it is upstanding, Ivy League graduates drink. I figured all the punk peacocks thought that way; you can not stay young forever, right? Eventually there comes a time when you put away childish things and have to make changes. Well, my little peacocks did not share that mindset. No, my little punk peacocks wanted to stay in NeverNeverLand forever, and not have to face the real world. They were all determined to keep it that way, or die trying.
And die they did.
It is really quite easy to be punk; the whole thing is really one big distraction. If you dress like you have no future, then no one will question you when you admit to dropping out of college. If you look like you’ve beaten the hell out of countless drunks in bar fights, then no one will mess with you. If you defy your own health and light up that cigarette, then obviously you are a rebel and must be great in bed. No point in planning a future when the only thing it contains is another hangover and empty bottles. Do I miss being a punk? Absolutely. Not having to care or think or plan can make life a cake walk, right up until your boots can walk no more. I traded in my boots about a month ago, and now it is loafers and dress shirts. Every day brings a new cardigan, and I finally understand why every black belt I ever purchased could be flipped over to brown. The whole experience has been eye opening. People treat me nicer, and are more willing to speak to me. I am called “sir” instead of “move asshole”. The only thing I am struggling with is the fact that I feel like it is all a lie with me. My punk perspective had become my security blanket, my invisibility cloak, my bullet proof vest. The clothes may make the man, yes, but the man must defend his clothes. I can not defend my new Ivy League attire quite yet, but I am desperately trying to. I can suddenly see the shock and disappointment when I admit to dropping out of college. A strangers eyes use to expect that answer, but now it let’s them down. Surely a man who wears such nice cardigans and has such finely pressed pants would have graduated. Naturally he has a flourishing career. Absolutely not could he ever struggle with money. No, no, with an outfit like that, I bet he owns a boathouse. They say, you should always pull yourself up by your bootstraps; but I guess I have to figure out how to pull myself up by my loafer laces.
