Carmen Is So Punk Rock




No, actually, I am not.

Although, I take the compliment, I am flattered, I know what you mean, sort of.

I am a nanny.

Carmen is a “hipster” nanny.

Now, that’s a new one.

Again, flattered, but no, not much of a hipster either when it comes right down to it (don’t pay attention to the tattoos, the one speed bicycle I ride every day, or the nose ring, ‘k?), I’m pretty white bread and butter.

I get up early.

I make my breakfast.

I drink some coffee.

I go to work and I am on time.

None of these things say punk rock to me.

I don’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or stay out late.

I used to do all those things and I still wasn’t much for punk rock.

Much to my consternation.

“I just don’t know that I can date you, I mean, the music thing is deep for me,” he said.

Yeah, I know, when I like dance music, electronic, 4 on the floor house music and he likes punk rock, dirty, loud, mosh pit mania, I don’t stand a chance.

I have been to one punk rock show.

I had a crush on the guitarist and they opened for the Dwarves at Slim’s.

I remember quite well He Who Cannot be Named and his small flaccid junk waggling about in front of me and the Mexican wrestling mask and I thought, well, ok then, I guess I’ve seen that now.

When I was a gutter punk, I really wasn’t a gutter punk enough.

I was homeless, but that doesn’t make you punk rock either.

I think punk rock though, can be a state of mind, a way of being, I am a spiritual warrior, not that I write about that much, God freaks people out.


Frankly, God is pretty punk rock if you ask me.

I am different, although not unique, and I don’t classify easily, and that is ok too.

I’m just me.

Just Carmen.

Just kicking it around the block a little bit.

I wasn’t feeling particularly punk rock either after waffling around outside of the taqueria on Church and Market across from the SafeWay.

Go with my friends to the movie.


Go home.

I decided to go home.

Not punk rock either.

Going home.

Being responsible.

Going to bed a a reasonable hour so that I can do all the things and see all the people and show up for all the commitments I have on Saturdays.

So I can go to Decompression on Sunday and not be worried about having to make food for the week or grocery shopping or cleaning or doing laundry.

Decompression is definitely not punk rock.

It can be Steampunk at time, but those are slightly different too.

Actually, now that I am thinking about it, Gate and Perimeter teams are a bit punk rock, but the Decompression party itself, is really not very punk rock at all.

I’ve had some passing crushes on some punk rock guys.

But never enough to persuade me to go over to that side of the musical scene.

Currently listening too?

Maurice Chevalier.

Not punk rock.


But not punk rock.

Not that the French can’t be punk rock, they definitely can, and I have seen some fine examples therein, but I am not of that ilk either.

I know it was a compliment and I take all such interpretations of my personality as compliments, but when it boils down to it, I am pretty much a softie who is far more interested in sipping tea and listening to jazz piano then I am being anti-establishment.

Although there are some things about my way of life that are completely against the norm, I, for instance, don’t have a credit card.

I think that is really punk rock.

I mean most folks these days have a credit card or five.

I pay it forward in cash baby.

I also don’t have a lot of material possessions.

I think that is probably punk rock.

Either that or just poor.

Probably poor.

I like my things though and I like my life and I like that I can wear a lot of different hats and fit in with a lot of different folks.

I can go to a rap concert or a punk show.

I am happy at a rave as I am a flamenco show.

I have sat happily for hours practicing cello and have screamed lyrics at the top of my lungs at a NIN show while stomping it out in the mosh pit.

I like that I hold multitudes.

There is, of course, a core to me that tends toward certain flavors and styles, but I don’t have to narrow myself down to one certain category or anything.

I am not typical.

That’s what I am getting at.

I am a writer a poet, a lyricist, a lover, a lady, a child, a brat, I am stubborn, irritating, prideful, extravagant, boisterous, shy, extraverted and introverted all at the same time.  I am funny and boring, and sad and silly, I am older than I want to be in my joints and knees–I wish I could get my dance on better I do–and young in my soul.  I am gregarious and nurturing, strong, passionate, adventurous, scared, brave, goofy.

I am so many things.

But really, punk rock, not so much.

I smiled when I rode off on my bicycle, wearing my black hoodie sweatshirt, covering my many tattoos, my nose ring glinting in the wash of moon light that peeked out from a fog bank, I adjusted my messenger bag on my back and thought, it’s not a bad moniker for who I am and what I do.

I make my own way in the world.

I don’t follow norm.

I am brave and brash and brazen at times.

Maybe I could be punk rock.

Then my hair got stuck in my lip gloss and I laughed out loud as I brushed my pony tail out of my mouth.

Do punks do glitter?

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