Of Fish and Water

I catch myself in a yawn on the elevator down to the ground floor of my dormitory. I woke up this morning laying on the floor, holding a pack of fruit gushers, and wearing my room mates underwear. That's your basic college blackout. Everyone else here is looking for the same thing; a release from the academic pressure. With my newly showered body and groggy demeanor I would have fit right in a few hours ago. I say a few hours ago, because right at the moment it's about half past one. There's an English class I'm supposed to be in haste to attend but I have a little cloud named hangover floating above me.

The elevator comes to a stop and the metallic doors melt away. I stumble out and get an urge for a hacking cough, but I suppress it. I don't make eye contact with any of the random souls coming in. I wouldn't know what to do with their gaze. My shoes and the floor make a clapping noise that I don't like, so I walk faster towards the automated door and rush out of the building.

I step out on Liacouras walk and give in to the irresistible desire to stretch my limbs. I notice a couple of posters up on the wall opposing me. I walk over to it and hang my head when they come into focus. You have it right Thomas Frank. The evidence is printed on glossy photo paper here for everyone to see. They are movie posters advertising On The Road and The Motorcycle Diaries. Brad Pitt is going to play Sal Paradise and I see a listing for Selma Hayek. Poor Jack Kerouac. If only he knew who was going to be uttering the phrase "I loved the way she said L.A. A man gets a part in Fight Club and all of a sudden it's his job to be apart of any literary adaptation.

The Motorcycle Diaries is the film that put Che Guevara into the popular bloodstream. It related what the man stood for in a couple captions at the end only. Whatever intent that movie had lost it's meaning in the fact that it was a feature film. "The medium is the message. Indeed Marshall McLuhan, indeed. I hang my head in shame and walk down Liacouras walk heading towards Alumni circle.

I slowly raise my head out of groggy frustration and soak in the sight. I see groups after group sitting on the edge of the walk. Some kids rocking Rocawear, Nikes, and big brimmed baseball caps have congregated over near the steps heading up to the 7-11. Seated right across the street are some guys with fro-hawks, Abercrombie t-shirts, and khaki shorts. Further up the walk sitting on bench are girls wearing sunglasses with thick white rims, pink shirts, and white skirts. They are all sipping their mocha frappuccino's and talking into their Motorola Razr's. Congregated next to them are girls in the same get up trying to be bubbly and perky. The tree lined spot behind alumni circle is where the Goths hang out, wearing black heavy clothing in eighty degree heat. My frustration builds and builds. It hit's an irreversible peak when I see it. A picture of Che Guevara hanging on the chest of a guy who looks about twelve years old.

I keep my hands in my pockets and I walk right up to him and his group hanging out in the Alumni circle. A cigarette hangs from his lip as he converses with two other kids in punk attire. They are all wearing the same green cadet hat. I beam a smile of reassurance at them. "So, you guys are punk huh? They stop talking and look at me for the first time. As much as it pains me I inspect the attire of the other two. A white CGBG sweatshirt and a Ramones t-shirt. My smile twitches. The boy adorned with Che Guevaras face gets his composure. "Yeah man, that's what we are. he says with a self assured smirk. I hear the strike of bell in my head. We just tapped gloves, and now it's time to come out swinging.

I fold my arms across my chest and tilt my head. A mock look of curiosity and perplexity is draped on my facial expressions. "Really, where's the guy on your shirt from? What did he do? I look to him, to the shirt, and then back to him. A strange sound emits from his throat and he just looks around. I shake my head. I unfold my hands and make a sweeping motion with my right hand and knock that corporate green eyesore off his head.

I move onto the kid with the CGBG sweatshirt. I don the perplexed look and the folded arms once again. "Where is the CGBG? The boys bottom lip pops out, and he dares to pull at the bottom corners of his shirt to inspect it. I sigh and knock his hat off. I move over to the kid wearing the Ramones t-shirt. I don't bother looking curious. "Name a song by the Ramones. This one is smarter then the others. His jaw didn't drop. He didn't look to his t-shirt. He tried to bolt as soon as I made my inquiry. I smacked his hat off with my left hand as he tried to flee.

I put my hands back in my pockets and bite my lip. I shut my eyes and make an exasperated sight and say in a simple questioning manner, "Hot topic? I open my eyes and see that they are all nodding. I turn on my heels and head towards the bell tower. I yell over my shoulder "Che Guevara was an Argentinean guerilla fighter, the CGBG is in New York, and you've probably heard 'Blitzkrieg Bop' by the Ramones. Stay the hell out of Hot Topic! I did you justice just now Thomas Frank. Maybe someday we can sit Johnny down and teach him that dissent isn't in the fashion.

I head towards Anderson hall, my head in a dizzy flurry of thought and disgust at the situation I just had to remedy. Before I realize it my legs have carried me at a furiously fast pace to Anderson. As I start to wonder how I didn't get hit by a car on the two roads that I had to cross I notice a girl outside my English class. She is wearing fishnets, has purple hair, and pale skin. She seems to know what she is doing more with her attire then the boys at Alumni circle. It seems more purposeful, not just a thrown together mess of k-mart rebellion.

She is handing out some sort of flyer. A kid in a backwards hat slows hesitantly wondering if she is going to hand him one. He walks into the class without one in his hand and a look of repressed confusion on his face. A boy wearing black tries to walk in and she pokes his shoulder and hands him one. He nods at her and she smiles. I walk towards the door and stop right in front of her. All I receive in response is international body language for "what the hell are you standing by me for? I wait for another uncomfortable second and walk in.

My stomach tightens into an uncomfortable knot as I find a seat in the upper part of the lecture hall. I lift up the desktop from under my chair and groan when I realize I didn't bring anything to take notes with. I look around and see Gunther in the next row over. I stand up and wade my way through the sea of seated people. As I strafe through the seats my butt makes contact with someone's head. I laugh when I feel the strange sensation of a cranium pushed against my bottom.

When I finally seat myself next to Gunther he takes only a glance at me. "Nice move back there Casey. I nod and smile. Hanging around Gunther will calm me down, bring my spirits back up, and get me a piece of paper and a pen. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but he's truly punk in his soul and it comes out in his poetry. I tried a line that would get Gunther to go off on a tangent. "I thought so too. I've scented that, it's fresh rain today. Normally Gunther would make some kind of noise at this, or say how the capitalism tells me what fresh rain smells like and in actuality it smells nothing like it. I didn't hear a peep, not word. This is very out of character.

"What's up Gunther, didn't start a riot in any centers of commerce lately? I prod with the stench of sarcasm all over it. He just shakes his head. "I couldn't get into this place where some anarchist punk types were squatting last night. They were having readings and setting up instruments in this old abandoned building just north of here. I just wanted to get in a few words. The guy at the door gave me a once over just like the girl here, and told me to fuck off. I guess if I had a Mohawk and dark clothes I would have been let in, but isn't that against the core of what punk is about? I just don't know anymore. People like Kathleen Hanna wonder why movements fail. That was your answer right there. You don't want mainstream attention, but you want your movement to succeed? You don't want this system here, but you want to make sure your bills a paid? The hypocrisy hits me with such a cold feeling I physically shudder.

Gunther is so depressed that I start to feel it myself. I don't bother asking for the paper or pencil. I avert my eyes from Gunther to the professor. He's a curious looking man with squared off barely there glasses, a black turtleneck, and green pants. If I had to guess Professor Thompson would have to be thirty-five years old at least. He's not old, but he's not young either. Right now he's going on and on about some book, and then I realize that he gets this look of embarrassment when he talks about the author. His cheeks turn rosy and he nods like he's receiving an academy award. It smacks me in the face after a second; He wrote the god damned book.

"In this book the narrator is trying to show the struggle of getting his ideas heard in such a hard market to get into. He¦. the man actually smiles to himself for a second and breaks from his sentence. "He tries to convey the reward in teaching, creating, and living in an academic arena and writing about it. I can't take sitting in here and listening to this guy talk about how good his book is and how cushy his job is. This is the guy that people like Brandon Holmquest charges with the ability to resist? He's living proof of why American literature is in the state it's in, and even Mr. Holmquest would agree with me on that. What about George Orwell you son of a bitch? There was a true artist! He lived in poverty. He did what he could to get buy and in so doing got new ideas. You disgust me Professor Thompson, right down to my very core. If artists and literary types like Mr. Thompson are charged with leading people to salvation from this system, we might as well dig our graves.

I pat Gunther on the back and head for the door. I take a right past the lucky cup café and sit myself in one of the sofas that line the windows. I put my elbow on the arm rest and place my face in my hand. Furious scribbling comes from next to me and in my curiosity I move a finger so I can see the source. It's a petite girl writing in a moleskin. I catch a couple lines of the poem. It wasn't bad. It was something about how the government manipulates society into shards of a shattered razor that exist only to cut each other out and not the problem.

I would have read more, but the girl noticed me observing. "This isn't for the public, creep. She says and turns her body at an angle so I can't see what she is writing. "I thought what I read was good. You ever thought about poetry reading? I say into my palm. She just looks at me and shakes her head. I press on. "Why not? Don't you want to be heard. This time she just turns her back to me. She seems to be struggling with something. She points to her head. "This is how I resist. This is where I am heard. After this she seems to shake off the thought. She gets up and heads for anywhere I'm not.

I mull over in my mind what she just said, and realize that reasoning would never work for me. Sure, Duncombe said the individual creating culture within themselves is a theoretical way of resistance. The only problem is if you keep it introverted and use it as an escape to transcend the everyday reality of this place, you're just like everyone else. I go out and get completely smashed at every opportunity to escape the grinding gears of capitalism, but in a way that's enabling it. Some kids play videogames or watch movies to get into an alternate reality, but they are feeding the fire for this system. Sure, she's DIY, but what does that matter when the rest of the world is still lost in this rut of consuming? She had to buy that notebook after all.

I get up and walk out of Anderson. I head north on 11th street instead of the quick way back to my dorm. There is such a contrast with the buildings around here and the neighborhood around it. This place looks it's halfway to Dresden, hierarchy bombed by the upper class with its victims walking around asking for change. So this is what a color blind society looks like. My head sinks once more as I see yet another line drawn on the cultural landscape.

When I return to my dorm I flop on my bed and attempt to pass out before the night of partying that will most likely ensue. My brain conjures images of the general population on campus, the fish in water. The blind consciousness that sits in the minds of everyone who is apart of this place. I know I'm not the only one who can see it. The punk girl outside my English class, Gunther, my English professor, even that girl in the lobby are witnesses to it. We swim in this bitter and murky water and stay ineffective. I let go of these thoughts and drift off to an uneasy sleep.

I awake with a start at the sounds of college girls laughing at lude college boys jokes. My watch says nine o'clock, which is just about perfect. Nothing gets started party wise until about ten o'clock. I take off the wrinkled clothes I had been sleeping in and slip into my party camouflage; clothes guaranteed to help me fit in and look good. Pick a brand and it's there. I put on what everyone expects of a college partier:

- Flip flops
- A live strong bracelet
- Spiked hair
- Axe body spray
- Temple Intramural T-shirt

After I donned these articles of commercial influence I used to get this cocky walk and think to myself, "Yes, people are going to notice me! I stopped thinking like that when I realized that every guy looks like this. Now I just wear it to blend in and hide. I open my door and head out with the flood of people looking for a good time.

When I get out to Liacouras walk the lights from the buildings and lamp posts make everything look washed out. I take a left and follow the human cattle train destined for the frats past Johnson & Hardwick dormitory. You can feel the excitement of everyone here. They've been holding this in all week and now get to splurge over a few nights and days.

The cattle happen upon broad street and wait for the chirp of the crosswalk. You can tell who isn't used to Philly by the worried looks they have about the buildings surrounding them. They'll take note of how run down they are, but who knows if they'll figure out that they're swimming in it. Right around Diamond street I head west and head for the first building I see with signs of the Greek alphabet on it. I flash my college ID at the guy standing at the door and he waves me in.

The air smells damp with a multitude of fluids. The green Christmas lights and blue light bulbs give the place a weird ghastly atmosphere. The bodies moving to the beat create so much heat that steam comes off there writhing flesh. The bass pummels my ears, making my eyes water. I get to the keg as fast as I can. The frat boy manning the keg looks like a carbon copy of me. He laughs a little bit when he notices the similarities, finding it amusing. I find it tragic, and I take the red cup and chug it as fast as I can and ask for another. After a few too many later and he's no longer amused. My feet take me into the center of the writhing human livestock. I move like they move. I conform to what they call expression. My body does everything my mind condemns. It is one with the mainstream version of a good time until I use my eyes.

I am in a crowd of preppy white kids. I look to my left and see some long haired goths just standing in a corner drinking. To my right are girls wearing thick white rimmed sunglasses. Sitting in chairs against the walls are the girls who wish to be their shadows, wearing white skirts and pink shirts. No one can hear me shout my frustrations. The music is far too loud for any sound being made by human vocal chords to register. A few people in the crowd may have seen me shout, but they're too drunk to care. I walk out of the mob of bodies living unreality and head towards something that will wash my conscience away for a while so I can go back to enjoying it.

I moved in a straight line towards the keg without any polite legwork for the partiers. The guy sees me a mile off and I can see the apprehension in his face. I stand in front of him and the keg and stare. "Just give me a god damned beer. His hand shakes as he gives me yet another red plastic cup. I start to drink it down when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's probably a frat boy getting ready to tell me I've had enough. I get ready to unleash all my hidden frustrations.

I turn only to see the petite girl from the lobby. I have no clue what to do. This is the last place I expected to see her. "Hey! she shouts in a cheery voice. She sounds like one of the girls with the sunglasses. It's apart of her party camouflage. I try a smile, but it comes off as an awkward squirrelly expression due to my mouth being filled with beer. I swallow quick and keep smiling. "Wow, nice look for you! She shouts in that cheery voice again. The falseness of that voice grates my soul like nails on a chalkboard, but I wouldn't dare say that to her. She and I have the same problem, the same condition. Her head bobs to the song and I continue to smile. "Well, see you later! She says and backs away as if I had wanted to keep her in conversation for the whole night. There she goes, the girl resisting society in her mind, and partying with her body. The hypocrisy hits me with such a cold feeling I physically shudder.

I look at my clothes and recoil. I throw my live strong bracelet on the floor and start heading for the door. Not even the alcohol seeping into my bloodstream can numb my mind of its troubles. Deep down I know I hate wearing all this, because it's just not me. I know what Gunther would think. He would say that since I see the world for what it really is that I should resist. I should be punk, metal, hip-hop, anything to keep away from the status quo. That poor bastard. He just doesn't understand.

None of these groups would take me, and I don't want them. All they do is come up with another way to conform. Want to be punk? Wear a leather jacket, a cadet hat, like our music, live our way. Want to be metal? Wear dark clothing, get a piercing, like our music, live our way. Want to be into hip-hop culture? Want to be an anarchist? It's all the same once you get down to it. Even if you get past the fact that these groups have certain levels of conformity, they still don't have the right idea half the time. They see men in business suits from the 50's as the capitalist pigs now. The writing was literally written on the wall this morning about what true capitalism is; always changing and wanting to appear revolutionary. A novel that was considered the voice of rebellious lifestyle is being put into theaters for a tamed audience! A movie made about a man who wanted to stop the powerlessness and oppression of the masses was made for the oppressed masses! Oh my dear Thomas Frank, what has happened to this thing we used to call rebellion?

I stumble out of the front door with my mind buzzing like a beehive. I start shouting like a madman, and I probably am right about now. I'm just fed up with this entire routine. "None of you understand how this all works! Seriously¦think about it! If all of you subculture things would start getting the message out and show people what's wrong with this god damned place they might listen! TELL THEM WHAT IS IN THE WATER AND THEY'LL STOP SWIMMING IN IT! I trip over a beer bottle and fall on my face. I snort with laughter at the nerve endings in my cheek trying to tell me that it's scraped. I get up and zig zag towards Broad Street.

As I start crossing I notice a white Lexus. There's a sticker on the front that says fox business graduate and has a temple T logo. I look in the car and the guy is wearing trip-hop shirt and torn jeans. This must be Tom Peters biggest fan. The revolutionary executive. The delight at having an opportunity to talk to one of these types overwhelms me, along with the beer I've had. I walk over, lean down, and knock on the window in the most amiable fashion. I smile with my eyes closed. My head weaves left and right involuntarily. Everyone needs to be educated about the system, including the guy the newly redesigned capitalist pig. "Hey man, how's you trip? the young graduate asks. I look off in the distance for a second and look back. "It's far out man, it's far out. Listen, I need to ask you something. You think you're a little bit of rebel? I say in a whisper, raising my hand and putting my finger and thumb about a quarter of an inch apart. He laughs a little and nods.

I make a gasp, laugh, and slap my knee. "You know why that's funny to me sir? Remember, that's a rhetorical question! It's funny because young executives like you have made capitalism look rebellious, cool, hip, all of that stuff! You guys have maimed revolution in the name of selling things from power wheels to KY jelly! Thank you man, thank you! I attempt to get into the car, but all that really happens is my torso is inside giving him a drunken bear hug and my legs are flailing outside wondering what the hell is going on. After a moment he tells me to get the hell off, so I do so. He drives off once the light turns green and I run to other side of Broad street.

I know exactly what will happen tonight. I will fall asleep in a drunken stupor, and all these thoughts will drift out of my head. I won't remember a god damn thing. I won't remember that I came to the conclusion that subcultures aren't Jesus because Jesus got the message out. Jesus was willing to advertise. Sure it was commercial, but if you want massive change you need a massive audience.

Tomorrow I won't remember my desire to have this classist, racist, and separatist system fall apart. Maybe that's me being hopeful. Maybe I just don't want to notice the water anymore. Maybe I'm waiting for some big fish with big ideas to come around and show everyone else so I can truly fit in. Maybe he'll think like I do. Maybe he'll say that in order to have any dent in the status quo all the subgroups from artists to punk rockers need to change their idea of capitalism and educate the masses rather then separate themselves. I laugh at the thought of a giant fish telling me what is wrong with the world and keep walking. I get ready to go up the steps into the lobby of my dormitory when I hear a strange noise. I look over to see a man putting up a new ad on the wall. It's for a scent of axe called enlightenment. Son's of bitches.