was in, except for school. That was until I joined the high school marching band and met my friend Jamie. Jamie was largely responsi - ble for introducing me to the punk scene after he discov - ered my love for the band Green Day. A self-proclaimed Yippie and admirer of Abbie Hoffman, Jamie had long hair, aviator sunglasses, Chuck Taylors, and his own car, which was pretty much the coolest thing since sliced bread. We went to local shows
put on by local artists, many of whom became close friends. Eventually, Jamie began to organize his own shows with his own bands, which were mostly reggae, two-tone, or ska – a punk subgenre, and my personal favor- ite one, at that. As time went by, I met more punks and experienced new things. I watched people get sketchy tattoos next to cigarette ash, open bottles of cheap li - quor, and food that was foraged from dumpsters. “DIY or Die” was the slogan that we lived by. We screen-printed our own shirts, sewed on our patches, recorded and released our own music, repurposed found items into artwork and furniture, and created our own sense of community. Of course, there were a few who were unsupportive. Punk Fact for the Un - punk: Green Day was 86’d from their local, Bay Area punk scene and home base 924 Gilman Street, and most of the national and international punk rock community for signing to a major record label. And I’m a Green Day superfan? How dare I. Scoff. At least, that’s how some folks acted toward me. It drove me nuts.
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