That $375.00 "Punk" Jacket

First of all, let me just say...THIS IS AWESOME!

This is HILARIOUS!

And a whole bunch of people ARE NOT GETTING IT!

Yesterday - certainly with help from me - this particular item went viral on Facebook: A shabbily-rendered old "punk" leather jacket, selling for $375 at Urban Outfitters in the vintage area. It went viral for good reason: It is so hilariously wrong on so many levels.

As usual, a lot of people got upset. As usual, it was wrong-headed. For one thing, I get the feeling some of those people thought this was some mass-produced high-fashion item, sold in large quantities at a premium price as "authentic" when it's off the production line and off the rack.

No, guys, you missed it: It says "vintage." It's in Urban Outfitter's vintage department. Which means one of their buyers found this piece of crap in a Goodwill, probably for $4.00, and is selling it like it was the latest Yves St. Laurent gown. Because it's so "authentic."

I remember a lot of woefully executed garments like this back when. This was part and parcel of D.I.Y. punk rock culture: The results could be especially ugly, in a culture that embraced a sort of institutionalized ugliness. This wasn't merely graphically rough-edged, though: It's wrong. On every level.

First, it's not a proper motorcycle jacket, ala The Ramones or Sid. This appears to be some '80s Members Only jacket. And not even a real one - probably a Sears or JC Penneys knockoff.

Then comes the decoration. Dude must have used 50 bottles of Liquid Paper on the back of this already shabby jacket. Then he clearly drew the logos in ballpoint pen (or biro, for my British readers), or at most a Sharpie. He had not heard about spray paint and cardboard stencils.

I'm pretty sure next time the jacket's original owner showed up in the pit at his local slam-a-torium, that jacket got him laughed right out of that pit. Every girl he approached surely shut him down too: "*pffft!* I wouldn't fuck ANYONE dressed in THAT! Are you serious?!"

Surely, this sad garment likely lasted one or two gigs before its owner tired of being the laughing stock of the scene. Back in the closet it went, likely not even replaced with something more proper. Eventually, the owner studied to be an accountant in college, bought Pearl Jam's Ten when it came out, graduated, got married, and voted for George W. Bush. Both times.

The wife decided to clean out the closet recently, and came upon The Jacket.

"Oh, my GAWD!" she screamed, before laughing uncontrollably. "Honey, what in the HECK is THIS?!"

She shows it to The Dude, probably cleaning the gutters in their safe suburban tract home.

He glances, blushes in embarrassment. "Oh, that?! Heh heh! Yeah, that was back when I was young and crazy...."

So, it was boxed up, along with the old tennis rackets and aluminum cookware and some Polos that no longer fit him, and it was off to the Goodwill donation center.

At some point, an Urban Outfitters buyer is scouring the stacks at this particular Goodwill...and there it is.

"Oh, GOODNESS! What a FIND! A remarkable piece of AUTHENTIC PUNK ROCK! We MUST have this! We could make SO MUCH MONEY off this!"

And here it is. Some asshole fashionista will soon purchase it, because $375 plus postage and handling is just burning a hole in his credit card. And he will be the center of attention at the club that night, all the other hipsters wondering where they can get a piece of shit like that.

While the rest of us laugh.

And for the person who remarked on one of the threads that this was "bastardizing the punk and metal scenes?" Guess you didn't see this. It's also $375....

At long last: The tale of the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor!

Not an actual photo of the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor, but an artist's depiction.

It all began the day I arrived in Denver, back in mid-March of this year. Charlie had picked me up from the bus station about a quarter to seven in the AM. After a hearty breakfast at the Denver Diner on Colfax ("Mike Ness apparently likes to have a grilled cheese here when Social Distortion is in town...."), we obviously ended up at Charlie's - me, my filthy and travel-racked body, and my three suitcases. As we rounded Charlie's building's staircase and headed to his apartment, he paused at the door next to his, turned, and whispered conspiratorially as he pointed at the door: "Really loud masturbator." I, of course, had to laugh like a 14-year-old jackass, stifling it so as not to wake his neighbors.

Later, after doing some errands, Charlie and I were passing this guy's door. The neighbor stood before it, smoking and looking much like the comic book shop guy from The Simpsons, minus the ponytail and plus small wire-rimmed glasses. "Great weekend to get fucked-up, eh guys?" he chortled.

Great. Not only is he a really loud masturbator, he's an overgrown frat boy. Swell.

The next morning, as I stumbled into the bathroom for the morning whizz, I got 120 dBs of what Charlie was joking about: Chucklehead's shower going across the wall, and some serious solo porno moaning. "Oooohhhh!...Oooohhh!...OOOOHHHHHH! GODDAMMIT! FUCK!"

It happened like clockwork, every AM. Sometimes, Charlie's hot blonde neighbor on the other side would be getting it from some piece of bar trash she'd picked up the night before. So it was like she was filling in the gaps in the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor's presentation. And we were getting it in stereo. Now if only the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor could hook up with this chick, and then he'd have a reason to moan.

Eventually, it got to be so comical, I had to start tweeting about this guy's exploits, quite naturally. I didn't expect it to be such a hit, though. This guy started getting an international following, due to my own internet presence. Facebook friends would write, wanting photos of the guy, telling me they "missed the jack-off guy." Some guy in the UK told me his band wrote a song about him. (I ended up deleting that guy - he turned out to be as big an overgrown frat dude as the LMN.) His new fan club thrilled as I reported my discovery that the only music he seemed to own was Rush and '70s white jumpsuit Elvis Presley. And yes, he'd pump the hydrant and porno moan as he listened to "Fly By Night," at top volume on a Friday night.

After about a month, I was coming home from work one night. There he stood at the top of the steps, the LMN, smoking as he did the day I first showed up. "Oh, hey!" he blurted, drunkenly. "We haven't met! I'm Todd!" We shook hands. Thankfully, his wasn't sticky, rashy, or growing hair in the palm.

I told Charlie that Todd had introduced himself. Charlie looked at me, slack-jawed. "We've been neighbors for years, and he's never once introduced himself to me! He must like you!"

That scared me.

As the weather warmed, I'd leave Charlie's front door open as I tapped away at his computer, seeking much-needed ventilation as I either wrote or searched out a job. The LMN would take to drunkenly stumbling in, uninvited. Every time, the conversation was the same: "Oh, hey! We haven't met yet! I'm Todd!" "Yes, Todd. We met a few weeks ago. Could you please not ash on the carpet, dude?"

As the weeks unfolded, it came to pass that masturbating wasn't all the LMN did loudly. He watched sports loudly. He talked on his cellphone loudly. He ate loudly. (Yes, I could hear that, too.) This was just one loud wrecking machine of a guy.

Eventually, the LMN dropped in, informed me he was moving out. "I'm getting a better place than this dump!  By the way, we haven't met yet! I'm Todd!"

And hence, he was gone. A week later, I moved out of Charlie's apartment and into my current digs in Westminster. The neighbors here don't masturbate loudly. In fact, I don't know what these people do. I kinda like that....