I have heard this one before and I am always amazed when otherwise intelligent and thoughtful people say things like this, which are so patently and demonstratively not true. See I'm complaining right now, ipso facto. Your argument is like telling a vegetarian they don't have the right to complain about McDonald's--or telling a vegan they don't have the right to complain about the ingredients in anything. They're not participating in the exploitation of animals but they sure as hell want to talk about it all the time.

So, of course I can complain, agitating is how change happens. I think changing the system from within has pretty much been disproved. But it's a hard sell to most people so I try to avoid the question sometimes, especially in the last election, which was so emotionally charged. I remember one bartender during my late night rounds asking me who I was voting for and I thought we were getting along ok so I started spewing the black star line as it were and she interrupted me saying "So I suppose you'd like to live on a plantation and own slaves! You with your Johnny Walker Black! (like most bartenders she remembered what I was drinking but not my name).

I'm pretty witty so I responded with "Huh?" to which she replied, "Not voting for Barak Obama is racist!" So I say "Oh no, you misunderstood, I'm not voting for John McCain."
"What?" she threw her bar rag down "How can you not vote for John McCain?"
"Well I don't want to take votes away from Obama."
“Then why don’t you vote for Obama?!”
“I told you, I don’t vote . . .”
This went on for a while; I think we eventually did a shot together.

So as I said I usually avoid the question. During the Clinton Administration I used to just tell people I was Canadian until one Libertarian canvasser got smart and asked me who the prime minister of Canada was-"Uh, Gary Trudeau?" and then it turned out there's Canadian branch of the Libertarian Party anyway. I had to duck into a bank to avoid carrying around an armful of literature and stopped using that line.

Another convenient answer almost lost me a job a couple years ago. I was working at a major metropolitan museum with a bunch of old ladies and Nov. 4 rolls around. One of the old biddies goes "You going to go to vote after work?" and not thinking, because I'm at work, say "No, I don't vote."

She comes back with this old chestnut: "but if you don't vote you can't complain about anything! You got to vote! It's your civic duty! People fought hard for the right to vote! I’m going to march you right over there! " and so on and so forth and I look at her and I know I am not going to change this 70 plus old black lady’s mind about anything so I say "Actually Martha, I'm not allowed to vote. I'm a convicted felon."
“What,” she says, "You’re a what? What did you do?"
“Assault and Battery,” I replied “on an elderly person.”

And that shut her up and I took an early lunch feeling pleased with myself…until I returned to my desk 2 or 3 martinis later to find a note: "Please report to main office.” I'm not too worried about it 'cause I have a lot of friends in the main office and it beats sitting at my desk next to Martha so I get there and the lady who hired me, Katie Marlowe, is looking fretful holding a piece of paper in her hand.

She says “I don't know how to say this Jack but I've got your job application here and next to the question ‘have you ever been convicted of a felony?’ you clearly checked the little box marked 'No'."
I start to laugh and she looks even more worried and asks what's so funny and I say “Oh, I was just lying!”
The poor woman is about to cry and says "well then I'm sorry but lying on your application is grounds for dismissal so . . ."
"No, no, no. I was lying to Martha, I was never convicted of anything."
Her discomfort turns to anger "why would you lie about something like that!"
"I wanted her to stop asking me questions."
"The only way you could think of getting a 75 year old woman to stop asking you questions was to tell her you've been convicted of Assault and Battery?!"
". . .On an elderly person . . ." I remind her.
"On an elderly person!?"
"well, you know how chatty she is, it really disrupts my work .. ." Ms. Marlow calms down. "She does talk a hell of a lot-- alright get out of here."

I return to my desk where Martha quickly hangs up her phone which she is clucking into conspiratorially "You're back!" She sits up straight quickly. I smile. I had that job for a long time.

I have voted once in recent memory though- in 2004 Inferno was asked to participate in Fat Wreck Chords wildly successful CD compilation Rock Against Bush V. One and I let myself be swayed because I thought it would just be hypocritical not to vote while trying to further my career by being on some silly California label and while I clearly don't mind lying, hypocrisy bothers me. So I told myself "You know fat mike is right, we've got to mobilize the kids we can really make a difference and . . ." and I talked myself and a bunch of my friends into voting and of course we didn't win. The IRS finally found me, I got jury duty, parking tickets from the late 80’s started showing up in the mail, and a couple people I talked into participating in democracy stopped talking to me, in particular this one friend of mine Angel.

He was brought up Jehovah’s Witness and you know they don't vote and for some reason me and fat mike talked him into it for the first time. The day after the election results came in, he called me and said "You know Jack, now I've disobeyed God, I feel like a loser and I really don't think I want to have lunch with you anymore." I felt like the Beastie Boys when they realized that they were not going to free Tibet. So I was very comfortable flip flopping to my original opinion.

Oh by the way- I did finally figure out an airtight line to get people off my back when I don’t feel like having a philosophical conversation which will probably enrage the other participant and not even amuse me anymore: “I can’t vote, I’m from the future and I can not affect the past in any way!”

Don’t try this line on Scientologists though, it only encourages them.

Mats- kids don't follow. I just vibe with the desperation of it all though i should add Mr. Hess is firmly in The Huskers camp.

I think we are gone forever except for the glorious memories we leave behind- get to work!

People do stop me on the street but never for very pleasant reasons. They usually think I am somebody else or even if they do recognize me it's usually of the "you're that guy from that band who talks too much" or "my girlfriend won’t shut up about you" variety. So to answer your question: only in very specific places at very specific times. I am a sort of temporary autonomous star.

I couldn't be prouder.

1)As per, the one I am drinking now: Zardini Amarone Della Classico 2004 and for these purposes 2)to swig it in a club which does not serve Zardini Amarone Della Classico 2004. It's why I usually drink Scotch in bars.

Now this takes me back. We were on our first long tour of The U.S., which we had unfortunately booked ourselves so there was no one to blame for the unplanned 3-day layover in fucking Indiana. No one but me of course because when I say "booked ourselves" I mean me and about four hundred Gin and Tonics sitting around my kitchen table trying to con club owners across the country to give a guarantee to this “great new 13 piece circus act that had an exciting new record out on a New Jersey label known for Hardcore Punk.” Or not con them as was becoming increasingly evident as gig after gig got cancelled but the nice kids in Indianapolis let us stay in the club we had played in a night ago which had formerly been a church and was now more of a record store. We were still passed out on the floor of the spot when that night’s bands start loading in so mostly out of instinct we set up our gear to open the show. It was a Death Metal show headlined by a group called "Burn The Priest" (Who I believe went on to find success under the less controversial moniker 'lamb of god'- whatever). Their crowd did not dig us at all. While we are playing our only slow number at the time "witches" this all done up corpse kid punches me in the head. I stagger then clock him with the microphone. He goes down hard pulling me with him- the mic cord is pretty short so the P.A. goes down too- there's a giant crash but as always the band plays on. After the show I score some vicodin off the same kid's girlfriend- she searches through his unconscious pockets to find the pills. I pay her happily.

The next day neither we nor the church have a show so we crash again and sit around practicing or pairing off. I wander into town, find a gay bar where I hustle drinks, It's a long afternoon. By the time I get back to the church all the rest of the kids in my traveling circus have voted to go the fuck home- "we'll do the show tomorrow in Chicago -if that one is even really happening Jaaack . . ."

It was only chopping a week off the trip, a week which indeed would have taken us in the wrong direction of home but I was livid. I had just risked my virtue to get drunk and was ready for a good long 6-hour fight all the way to Chi-Town. I demanded a re-count, to know what everybody was thinking, that we stop for wine! Ungrateful motherfuckers! What about the kids waiting for us in Omaha tomorrow? I'm not calling and canceling! I'll go by myself! and so on and whatever.

We finally pull into Chicago and to the club which is actually a dilapidated bowling alley where no one has bowled for a long time. I stalk immediately to the bar and start loudly disparaging my band mates while ordering drinks I can't pay for. My band mates smile at me and throw money on the bar then go together to eat Mexican food down the street.

At some point I realize I am making an ass of myself in front of the evening's potential audience and ask where the dressing room is--it does not exist so I stagger outside to try and find some private place to warm up my voice.

I started taking voice lessons some time late in my punk rock career, crazy but true- being on tour as a singer you quickly realize everybody in the band hates but needs you and if you can't hit those notes- left by the side of the road in Arizona, running after a van you hate- don't leave me . . .

so I walk behind the club, a large block of buildings and start doing a few scales- it's real loud operatic stuff- LA LA LA LAAAA LA LA- as silly as you can imagine it. I am soon interrupted by suspiciously slow moving cars and then interrupt couples making out so because I am an optimist I look skyward and decide I’ll have more privacy on the roof!

It's not hard to get up there. I roll a dumpster next to the fire escape and scramble on up, wave into a few windows on the way, get to the top and start some deep breathing and "Blooo blooo bloo bloo bloo bloo bloo!"

I'm going at it for about 10 minutes (it's a half hour thing usually) when all the sudden I notice the roof top is a lot more lit up than it was a few minutes ago. I peer over the edge down to the street in front of the club where 2 cop cars are shining their spotlights right at me. I leap back- shit! I gotta get out of here! I run back to the other side of the building only to find another cop car in the alley likewise dragging its side light up and around.

Beneath my feet I can feel the bass guitar of the opening band tuning up and for a moment I think "alright Jack, just climb down and explain to the cops that the club doesn't have a dressing room so you just got up here to do a little singing and I'm sure they'll understand . . ." when below the bass player starts playing the riff to The Circle Jerks' 'deny everything' and something clicks in a very basic part of my brain that screams "RUN YOU FOOL! GET THE HELL AWAY! GO!"

I respond, "EEEEEEEE!" and run up the block over rooftops.

At this point sirens are wailing, I can hear the band down at the club punkrocking away and I come to a courtyard. It's little more than an airshaft but I’m pretty sure I can't make the leap across. The lights and the sirens are getting closer and closer. I stand with wind whipping through my jacket. The band inside the Fireside Bowl finish a song, I hear someone yell "Hey!" so I drop on down.

There I sit hunched quietly in foot high weeds while my eyes adjust to the light. The band next door finish another song, then another. I begin to think what my band will do without me and stare at the walls figuring "no way I can climb up this" and even though I’ve never smoked think 'this would be a good time for a cigarette'.

As I sigh audibly a window half way up the wall opens. It's a man in evening dress. We look at each other. And look at each other. And again until he says "What the fuck are you doing down there!?"

And my dam breaks and I sob "I'm hiding from the police but I only got on the roof for some privacy and my bands about to go on next door and IS THERE A WAY OUT OF HERE!" The guy shakes his head in disgust, "Wait there" he spits.

A few moments later a door I hadn't noticed pushes open through the weeds grown over it. There stands the man in the tuxedo. "Hurry up you asshole!" he hisses.

I follow him up a flight of stairs babbling thanks. He tells me to shut up. We emerge onto a roof top garden where-I swear to god- a full dinner party is going on. There are women in gowns and waiters and an ice sculpture perched in the center of the table. I am stunned. One of the ladies at the table notices me. 'Oh Steve!" she exclaims "Who is this friend of yours? He's cute!"

I, of course, come alive in front of an audience.

"Me?", I smile "Oh I'm just running from the police, what's your name?"

Before the lady can answer my reluctant savior in the tux grabs me by the arm and pulls me away. Out a door, through a kitchen, an apartment decorated with large modern paintings then a flight of stairs calling me an asshole all the while. When we get to the ground floor he pushes me out onto the street. I turn around and extend my hand "thanks man" He scowls and slams the door.

I'm safe! I look around. Fullerton Street is half a block ahead, at the corner I can see the club in the distance. There are punks lined up outside. A cop car has just turned the far corner so I walk casually but briskly towards the club. Another police car is rolling up with its searchlight pointed toward the roof but I am almost at the Fireside's door. There a gang of Liberty Spiked Punks are pushing each other around. The cop car is immediately in front of the club searchlight searching up and slowly rolling by.

I'm passing the Glamour Punks 5 feet from the door when one of them looks at me and drawls in a California accent "Hey! Look at the Fag!"

I stop dead in my boots and drop my jaw at him, He's guffawing and making big at me but I walk right at him. 'You fuck' I think 'I've just been chased over the roof tops of Chicago by the goddamn police after sleeping on floors for a month and a half trying to make punk a treat again only to be bias crimed by a bunch of second rate punk rockers such as yourselves? nu-uh.'

I look at the obviously touring van they are standing in front of and ask "What the fuck band are you!" in this Passaic New Jersey accent I get when enraged.

The Liberty Spikes and the leather all stand up. One says "You couldn't keep walking could you?" cracking his knuckles and trying to look as tough as fuckers from Berkley can look. They tell me they are some band on Epitaph. And I think 'Epitaph. The epitome of punk rock all over this country. The golden label. Fag bashed by my own people. Well fine, I'll go down fighting.

I begin to smile with all my teeth and begin wrapping a handkerchief around my fist when I'm spun around by The Fireside's doorman. "You asshole!" he yells. I am clearly an asshole "Your band and 5 cop cars are searching for you! How the hell did you get on the roof? And don't give me that 'we can fly' crap!"

I laugh. The moment broken, I walk into the club, change into a light tan suit in the toilet then play the best damn show of the tour. Was that the one Wesley Willis wrote about? I like to think so, yes I do.