Anonymous asked: Is Aaron Sorkn the perfect opposite of punk rock.
(I am putting this one in text form because I couldn’t work out how to put page breaks in a question post and this one got out of hand quickly and is pretty goddamn long. Seriously. There’s something not right with me.)
I actually got ahold of his next planned project.
- THE PUNK SCENE
- EPISODE ONE
- WHAT KIND OF DAYGLO ABORTION HAS IT BEEN?
INTERIOR: PUNK HOUSE. Three punx are drinking beer. SHITFACE DAVE, FUCKHEAD BILL and PAM NECROSIS.
DAVE: Up the punx!
BILL: Up the what?
DAVE: The punx!
PAM: What’s going on?
DAVE: The punx!
BILL: We’re upping them, apparently.
PAM: Oh. So I guess the punx are getting upped.
DAVE: That’s what I’m saying! Up the punx!
WHIPPET (not an actual whippet, just a punk named that) (entering): What’s going on?
DAVE, BILL and PAM: UP THE PUNX!
WHIPPET: Jeez! No need to be so crazy about it!
The local dive-bar. Walt’s Hole. After-hours. At the bar is DIRTY WALT. Local punk mainstay. He’s been in the scene since 1975. Looks grizzled as shit. He once got punched out by Henry Rollins. Now he owns the bar and still puts on shows, but less recently. He is talking to CRAZY FRED, erstwhile singer of local punx legends THE FUCKBALLOONS. He’s been out of town for a while. He is also grizzled and totally jaded (yo, but only outwardly, obviously).
WALT: Ah, it’s changed.
FRED: Yeah, it’s changed. Not like back in my day.
WALT: Not like back in MY day.
FRED: Back in my day, you could see 150 kids in here. You could see The Ramones! I mean, with CJ yeah but still. It was The Ramones!
WALT: Back in my day, we had Dee Dee. Before his rap album!
FRED: Back in our day.
WALT: Back some day back then. (tails off, stares wistfully at bloodstain on the floor) You know, you could make that again.
FRED: No, I couldn’t.
WALT: You put yourself down, man. You’re a god.
FRED: No gods.
WALT: No masters, either.
FRED: Yeah, no gods, no masters.
WALT: No masters or gods.
FRED: None of that.
WALT: But you were, Fred. That was what you were. You were that.
FRED: That was the problem, Walt. It became too much. They looked up to me. But I looked down at them and thought “I’m looking down!” I don’t want to be looking down. I want to be looking, I dunno! I want to be looking… (tails off, stares wistfully at ashtray with puke in it)
WALT: Looking somewhere.
FRED: Looking good.
WALT: That’d be a thing.
FRED: We’re not like the Dwarves anymore, Walt.
WALT: Ah, fuck you to say that. You’re still in your prime! Look at me, I’m a busted-up heap of old punk rock with no future, as Johnny sang. You, you’ve still got something.
FRED: What have I got?
WALT: You’re Crazy Fred! You’ve got a name. You’ve got talent. You could make the scene.
FRED: No. No, I couldn’t Walt. I’ve got nothing to do with anything.
WALT: Alright, I’m gonna clear up and close.
FRED: Need a hand?
WALT: Nah, get outta here.
FRED: Seeya, Walt.
WALT: Fuck off, Crazy Fred.
FRED: It’s just Fred now.
WALT: You got something. Something to believe in.
Slow-motion shot of FRED walking home intercut with soft-focus flashbacks of him on stage punking it up. It is emotional as shit. Soundtrack: Fucked up in the City by Discocks.
FRED stops outside a shitty looking apartment complex. Music gets louder. He looks up. Sighs.
(It starts to rain. Pathetic fallacious as shit.)
SALLY FIREBOMB. A blonde punkette. Hot as shit. She is dressed like a member of The Donnas. Because why the fuck not? She is younger than FRED but has serious history with him. It is complicated as shit. Right now she is sitting in her room adding some studs to a new jacket. She accidentally cuts her thumb. And drops the jacket. She looks at the blood on her hand. Sighs. Bends down to pick up the jacket and her hand hits a box. A box of photos. She takes one out. It is a photo of FRED. That is coincidental as shit.
Morning now. The local record shop. FIREBOMB RECORDS. It is owned by SALLY. She walks in. BILL and PAM are behind the counter.
BILL: Morning boss.
PAM: Yeah, morning.
SALLY: I told you don’t call me boss. And morning.
BILL: Then what should we call you? You’re our boss.
SALLY: It just makes me uncomfortable, okay.
PAM: Look boss, I know you hold deep misgivings about the nature of capitalist society which forces us all into strict power-roles and that you resent such strictures being placed on the interaction of free-thinking individuals but at some point you gotta come to terms with the fact that that is the world you live in and also the world in which you own a record shop and vis a vis, you are our boss, boss.
SALLY: Alright, what’s happening?
(She begins walking around the central record island with the other two following.)
BILL: We got some new distro stuff in from No Idea.
PAM: But we are still waiting on the Alternative Tentacles shipment.
SALLY: Always room for Jello.
PAM: Night Birds are playing Walt’s next month.
BILL: Dave’s drawing it. He’ll have it with us in a couple days.
SALLY: Where is Dave?
PAM & BILL: Hungover.
PAM: Boy can’t handle his liquor.
BILL: That he cannot.
BILL: Seven new musician wanted flyers for the window.
SALLY: Four drummers.
BILL: Five. And a guitarist and a vocalist.
SALLY: Gimme the drummers.
PAM: A Screamers-influenced synth-punk band.
BILL: A His Hero is Gone-style crust band.
PAM: A garage-punk band modeled after The Pagans named, get this, The Too Pagans.
SALLY: Makes sense.
BILL: A psychobilly band named The Demon Quiffs.
PAM: And an easycore band seeking to, and I quote ‘emulate the soulful stylings of Four Year Strong’.
SALLY: Fucking double ouch. Throw that last one in the trash.
BILL: Already done.
SALLY: Alright, take it out of the trash, pour lighter fluid on it and burn it. Put the ashes in the trash.
PAM: Already done as well.
SALLY: Okay. The guitarist and the vocalist:
BILL: All-girl glam metal band seeks vocalist. Must totally rock.
PAM: And a pogo-punk band that lists as its main influences, ahem, The, um, the, um.
PAM: The Fuckballoons.
BILL: Speaking of.
PAM makes frantic ‘zip-it’ motions behind SALLY’s back.
SALLY: Speaking of what?
BILL: Oh, speaking of nothing.
SALLY: No nothing. Speaking of what?
BILL: Speaking of…
BILL: Yeah, speaking of balloons, I think it would be nice to get some for Dirty Walt’s birthday next week.
SALLY: Hmm. Maybe.
BILL: There’s a place where we can get some printed and they’re kinda sketchy and I’m sure they don’t mind if we swear on them. They could say WALT POP SOME CHERRIES LIKE THESE BALLOONS on them
PAM: Or not.
BILL: Why not?
PAM: That is sexist as hell!
BILL: It’s funny!
PAM: Sexism isn’t funny.
BILL: What about The Macc Lads?
PAM: What about fuck you.
SALLY: Shut up the both of you.
(WHIPPET enters the shop.)
WHIPPET: Hey Sally.
SALLY: Call me, boss.
WHIPPET: You fired me, remember.
SALLY: Oh yeah.
WHIPPET: Where’s Dave?
SALLY, BILL and PAM: Hungover.
WHIPPET: Boy can’t handle his liquor.
SALLY: He cannot.
WHIPPET: Oh well I was just stopping by to tell him about the locals that were getting added to that Night Birds show. Anyway, seeya. And Sally.
WHIPPET: Sallyboss. Say hi to Crazy Fred for me.
(PAM and BILL both stare daggers at WHIPPET.)
WALT’S HOLE. That same morning. Sally storms in. She is ticked off as shit!
SALLY: Why didn’t you tell me, Walt?
WALT: Now Sally…
SALLY: You didn’t tell me, Walt. Why?
WALT: Now Sally…
SALLY: Why not, Walt? Why didn’t you tell me.
WALT: Sally. If you’d just.
SALLY: Why did you not tell me Walt that Crazy fucking Fred fucking Fuckballoon was back in town, Walt. Why not? Why the fucking fuck not?
WALT: Jesus christ, Sally, I only found out myself a day yesterday. And he told me not to say anything.
SALLY: Oh. Okay.
WALT: He wants to see you, you know.
SALLY: Oh, well fuck him. I don’t want to see him. Did he ever thing of that?
Shitty one-room apartment. CRAZY FRED is lying on his couch. Listening to The Dead Boys. There is a banging on the door.
FRED: Fuck off! Rent’s not due for another week.
FRED: I said fuck off!
(banging continues. Fred gets up and walks to door)
FRED: I thought I told you that rents not due til next week and you should fuck off you fucking (opens door to find SALLY FIREBOMB standing there) fuck.
SALLY: Fuck indeed.
SALLY: Well are you gonna invite me in?
FRED: Oh sure. Uh, come on in. It’s uh, it’s not much to look at.
SALLY: Oh really.
FRED: And uh, neither am I. You know.
SALLY: You got anything to drink.
FRED: I got beer.
SALLY: You got beer.
FRED: Yeah. Beer.
SALLY: Then I’ll have a beer.
FRED: Oh okay. Beer.
(Fred gets them both beers.)
FRED: It’s good to see you.
SALLY: Yes. I imagine it is.
FRED: So, what’s up?
SALLY: What is up? What is up? I guess what is up is that the only man I ever loved who disappeared from my life a long time ago just turned up in town again and did not even bother to say hello. That is what I guess is up. That is what is up. Also the punx.
FRED: The punx?
SALLY: Always the punx.
FRED: I’m just back in town, you know. No ulterior motive. Been moving a lot. Thought I’d head back. See the old faces. A few of them, anyhow.
SALLY: So that’s it.
FRED: That is it.
SALLY: How long you planning on staying.
FRED: I dunno. Walt says he’ll give me a job for rent but I don’t want to be a drain.
(There is silence. It is silent as shit. Except for the Dead Boys obviously.)
SALLY: You ever play music.
FRED: I’m playing it right now.
SALLY: I mean play, play.
FRED: No. I don’t play, play.
SALLY: You used to. You used to play, play, play.
FRED: I know. I don’t know.
SALLY: So no Fuckballoons reunions.
FRED: Definitely not.
SALLY: Oh. Good.
FRED: Yeah, definitely good.
SALLY: No fuck you, Fred!
FRED: What? Fuck me!?
SALLY: Yes! Fuck you! Fuck you! The Fuckballoons were the best thing that ever happened to this shithole town and you could do something great again. You were true punx, true! Not false punx. You were something.The Fuckballoons were great! You could play again. It could be great again.
FRED: Great again, Sally!? Do you remember that Snotty is dead? Snotty’s dead! He died. Dead. D-E-R-D-E. Dead! Jimmy found god! Fartball sells insurance now and has like 8 fucking fat fucking kids. And me!? Me, I’m dead too! I’m deader than Snotty! Dead as the Dead Boys! I’m Stiv fucking Bators! And I’m more washed up than Fartball! More boring than Jimmy! I’m gone! I’m gone! In fact, I’m going.
(He pulls on his coat)
FRED: The Fuckballoons weren’t the greatest thing to happen to anyone, Sally! They ruined my life! Punk rock ruined my life! And it’s dead too. Fuck you, Sally! The Fuckballoons meant nothing to no-one. Punk is dead. Goodbye.
SALLY: The Fuckballoons meant something to me. You meant something to me, Fred. You were the greatest thing to happen to me.
A FEW DAYS LATER. FIREBOMB RECORD’S. PAM NECROSIS, FUCKHEAD BILL and SHITFACE DAVE are hanging out. CRAZY FRED walks in.
BILL: Hi. You’re…
PAM: You’re Crazy Fred.
FRED: Just Fred. These days. Not crazy. Not no more.
PAM: I love the Fuckballoons.
FRED: These two alright?
PAM: Yeah, they’re just being more fuckheaded and shitfaced than usual.
PAM: I’m Pam.
FRED: Just Fred. I said that, didn’t I?
FRED: Sally about?
PAM: No, we’re holding down the fort.
(FRED looks at a half-drawn flyer that DAVE is working on)
FRED: What’s the flyer?
PAM: Oh, it’s Night Birds! They’re playing here soon. They’re fucking great.
FRED: Cool. Who’s supporting?
PAM: Oh, we’ve got a couple locals but there’s still a spot to fill. Not too many punk bands available these days. Not like back when you were ripping it up.
FRED: Nah, I hear that’s how it goes.
PAM: I saw a video on youtube of you breaking a glass over your face during a show, man. That was amazing.
FRED: Yeah. Did that a bunch back then. You know what you should do for the final support slot? Form a band. There’s three of you.
PAM: Yeah, I suppose we could do that.
FRED: You totally should. It’s a punk band. It’s not hard. Anyway, if you see Sally, tell her I dropped by to apologise.
PAM: Will do.
DAVE: Oh my fucking god that was incredible.
BILL: That was Crazy fucking Fred! Incredible doesn’t even cover it.
DAVE: Whippet Crazy Fred was just fucking here he talked to us and everything.
BILL: Yeah it was incredibly amazing. Oh my god.
WHIPPET: Fuck. What he say?
PAM: He said to say hi to Pam. And that we should start a band.
A FEW DAYS LATER. INTERIOR. GARAGE. A band made-up of WHIPPET (drums), SHITFACE DAVE (vocals), FUCKHEAD BILL (bass) and PAM NECROSIS (guitar) are practicing. They come to the end of a sloppy version of Disorder’s Fuck Your Nationality.
WHIPPET: That sucked.
DAVE: Fuck you.
PAM: Yeah, it sucked.
BILL: Suck it did.
DAVE: You fuck.
WHIPPET: Suck that.
PAM: Come on guys. First show is in less than two weeks. And we’re supporting Night Birds!
BILL: It was great you got us on the bill, Whip, but we’re just gonna embarrass ourselves.
DAVE: Gimme another beer. We’ll nail this one yet.
WHIPPET: I’ll nail your mom, yet.
DAVE: Fuck you.
PAM: You fuck.
A FEW DAYS LATER, WALT’S HOLE. CRAZY FRED is tending bar. DIRTY WALT is shooting pool and hitting on an 18 year old. She slaps him.
FRED: Can’t win ‘em all.
WALT: These days can’t win one.
FRED: I think I’m gonna have to split soon, Walt.
WALT: Don’t say that.
FRED: Nothing left for me here.
WALT: Nothing left for me either. Don’t see me leaving.
FRED: You always were stupider than me, Walt.
WALT: And you always were a bigger bitch than me, bitch.
FRED: What a pair we make.
WALT: What a pair.
FRED: What a pair.
WALT: What a pair she had, man. If only I could’ve got one grab.
FRED: You always were Dirty, Walt.
WALT: Yeah, it’s in the name, remember.
FRED: Well I’m gonna leave.
WALT: How you getting out?
FRED: Hitch, probably.
WALT: You won’t get a lift around these parts. Looking the way you do. Smelling the way you do? Are you crazy?
FRED: Once upon a time. Not anymore.
WALT: You’re still crazy.
FRED: No way. If I was crazy would I do this.
(Fred makes like he’s gonna break the glass over his head but stops it short and puts it on the bar.)
WALT: Damn, Fred. The ol’ glass trick? Not seen that one in a while.
FRED: Yeah, well that there’s as close as you’re gonna get. Seeya.
WALT: No! Wait! Fred. Just. You know. Just stay for this show, okay.
FIREBOMB RECORD’S. PAM NECROSIS, FUCKHEAD BILL and SHITFACE DAVE are hanging out. CRAZY FRED walks in.
FRED: Hey guys.
PAM: Hey Fred.
DAVE: Hey Fred!
FRED: It speaks!
BILL: Hey Fred!
FRED: This one too!
PAM: Sally’s not here.
FRED: Again? Ah shit. Well, it was just a quick visit. I was just gonna tell her I’ll be at the show tomorrow.
DAVE: You mean you’ll be watching us play?
FRED: So you formed that band?
BILL: Yeah! We’ve got a bunch of songs already!
FRED: Then I guess I’ll be watching you play.
PAM: Whoa. You’re…
BILL: You just missed him.
Walt’s hole. Evening. Quite a few kids are milling around. WHIPPET, SHITFACE DAVE, FUCKHEAD BILL and PAM NECROSIS are setting up on stage. CRAZY FRED is at the bar with DIRTY WALT:
FRED: You know, I’m actually looking forward to this.
WALT: Of course you are. This is a fucking punk show. It’s in your blood! In your shit! In the blood in your shit!
FRED: You seen Sally about?
WALT: Not for a couple days.
FRED: Ah well. Guess I fucked it up big this time.
WALT: You fucked it up big last time. This time you just fucked it up a little. She’ll turn up.
SALLY (behind FRED): Who will?
FRED: Oh, just some girl I used to know.
(SALLY and FRED look at WALT)
WALT: I wanted to get in on the yeahs.
(Meanwhile on stage. Band is getting ready to play its first song. DAVE is drunk as shit.)
BILL: Dave, you are shitfaced.
DAVE: Fuck head you you fuck head.
PAM: Let’s just fucking go for it.
DAVE (into mic): Alright everyone we are The something I forgot the names and this song goes out to a man named Fred…
(DAVE falls forward over the monitors, unconscious)
BILL: Oh fuck.
(Back at the bar)
SALLY: Oh no.
FRED: Fuck. I really wanted to see what these kids could do.
SALLY: What are they gonna do?
WALT: Not much they can do. Not unless they do something crazy.
(Back on stage)
PAM (into mic): Well our singer’s gone. And I don’t think any of us know the lyrics he wrote.
VOICE FROM CROWD: HEY! YOU GUYS KNOW ANY FUCKBALLOONS!
BILL: Obviously. But we’re not comfortable playing them with who’s in the room
(FRED gets up on stage)
FRED: Punk isn’t about comfortable, you fucks. Now you know any Fuckballoons songs.
PAM: Fuck, I learnt to play guitar to The Fuckballoons.
WHIPPET: I learnt to play drums to them. I’m Whippet hi nice to meet you.
FRED: Shut your fucking mouth.
FRED: And you, Fuckhead?
BILL: Hey, they’ve only got two chords. I’ll figure it out.
FRED: Good point. Alright. You know the Bursting 69 Fuckballoons stuff?
PAM: Whole album.
FRED: The cover at the end?
WHIPPET: Hell yes.
FRED: Alright we’ll start with that.
FRED (into mic): ALRIGHT YOU PUNX! I AM TIRED OF PUNK ROCK MEANING SHIT ALL! I AM TIRED OF PEOPLE ENJOYING MUSIC THAT DOES NOT SOUND LIKE A LAWNMOWER EXPLODING! IT IS TIME FOR SELF-DESTRUCTION! IT IS TIME FOR NIHILISM! IT IS TIME FOR ANARCHY IN THE SENSE OF THE WORD USED BY PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER READ A BOOK WHICH I HAVE NOT! I WANT PUNK ROCK TO STAND FOR SOMETHING! TO STAND FOR LOOKING COOL AND PUTTING BITS OF METAL THROUGH YOUR FLESH! TO STAND FOR FIGHTING COPS AND GETTING THE SHIT BEAT OUT OF YOU BY SKINS AND COPS AND SKIN-COPS! TO STAND FOR GETTING ME A FUCKING DRINK!
(Someone hands FRED a drink. He downs it in one.)
FRED: I HATE MUSIC MADE BY PEOPLE WHO CARE! FUCK CARING! THIS IS BRINGING IT BACK TO WHEN PUNK MEANT SOMETHING AND THAT SOMETHING WAS NOTHING AND THAT NOTHING WAS SOMETHING! IT’S TIME TO SPEAK STUPID TO TRUTH! IT’S TIME TO TAKE SHITS ON STAGE! TO ACT LIKE A TODDLER! TO CONTRADICT YOURSELF IN YOUR LONG RAMBLING MONOLOGUE AND FUCK EVERYTHING! FIGHT THE WORLD! MAKE THINGS A BETTER PLACE! PISS ON YOUR UNCONSCIOUS FRIEND! RAMONES! STOOGES! BAD BRAINS! ACTION PATROL! HERE WE GO! WHAT IS HAPPENING!? IT’S TIME FOR US! NOW WE ARE NOT QUITE THE FUCKBALLOONS BUT WE ARE ALSO NOT QUITE NOT THE FUCKBALLOONS AND I AM DEFINITELY CRAZY FUCKING FRED SO HERE WE GO. THIS SONG IS ABOUT SOMETHING. IT WILL CHANGE THE WORLD. IF YOU BELIEVE! DO YOU BELIEVE!?
(Crowd cheers halfheartedly. Fred breaks glass on his face. Crowd looks weirded out. Sally at the bar laughs good-naturedly. She is young and in love again. Walt smiles paternalistically, creepily.)
FRED: THIS IS A SONG IS BY THE GREATEST MOST BEAUTIFUL IMPORTANT SMARTEST BAND IN THE WORLD! GBH! IT’S CALLED NECROPHILIA!
(Band starts playing. It is terrible. Montage of dancing and smiling faces. Credits start. Punk rock is saved as shit. Tune in next week for the law of quickly diminishing returns.)
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