Anarcho-Jarhead [flash fiction]

Flash fiction. noun. Fiction that is extremely brief, typically only a few hundred words or fewer in its entirety.

Chunks of mud brick rained down on Carter as he kissed the ground to dodge the bullets tearing through the compound wall.  Shit!  The tangos had a heavy MG.  With one hand he adjusted his Kevlar helmet, shifted out of whack in the dive.

He grabbed his M4 rifle, his knee pushed up and he dashed around the corner with his battle buddy on his heels.  They joined two others behind a Bradley fighting vehicle steadily making its way up the street as bullets clanged off the armor.  The tank’s side turret, mounted with a .50 caliber chain gun, returned fire at the al-Qaeda position as the tracks kept rolling and semi-crouched ground pounders trotted to keep up with their shield.

He huffed with deep heaves, pushing aside his nut-shriveling fear at the painful sound of the tango’s heavy MG shots ringing off the tank, lapping at his ear drums like jackhammers.  A tango, face covered in a red checkered shumoch, popped his head and rifle out of a window from an angle where the Marines were exposed.  Carter popped off two rounds from his M4 without missing a beat and the tango fell dead back into the house.

His sailor battle buddy pointed to their periphery.  Carter peeked in time to see the mortar crew mad-dashing toward an alley with access to an open yard.  They crossed the street, reeking of blood and shit, at a run past the bodies of two tangos with AK-47s still in hand and ruby caverns where their faces used to be.

The Marines were in this alone today.  Where the fuck were the security forces?

 “Corpsman!” someone desperately shouted, and his sailor battle buddy smack-patted his shoulder, saying ‘Come on!’  And they took off.  This was the eleventh day of the offensive and they still had three quarters of Ramadi to clear.  The cops they’d trained and heavily armed over the last two months were nowhere to be seen.

After the last tangos died or took off, their company lost three Marines killed and five wounded that day.  Carter had an epiphany on the ride back to the FOB.  If fighting for this country wasn’t worth it to the locals, then he sure as hell wasn’t getting blown up for this shit.

But he still had to finish his tour…

* * *

“You’re in for a treat, dude,” Raccoon said (so named because his favorite hat had ears). Six guys were crammed into an old VW van that reeked of weed and peyote.  Carter had never been to ‘Billy Madison College,’ as they called the warehouse where Raccoon’s friends put on underground punk shows.  He was now a resident of Hemingway House, a collective that grew legal weed, let people crash on their couches, and generally helped each other out.

The paint-cracked, dented VW van pulled up to the warehouse where a crowd had already gathered.  Guys and girls sipped beers and Four-Locos in paper bags, smoked cigarettes and an assortment of retro pipes, and Carter even caught a whiff of a pot cloud hovering over the crowd.  These lovers of the DIY punk scene were milling around, socializing while the bands unloaded their gear around the back.

People in the crowd shouted to greet friends that they recognized.  A 6’5 punk with a Pabst Blue Ribbon ball cap and a full beard on his smiling cheeks appeared from the crowd to greet Raccoon with a lumberjack’s hug.  He even wore a green and black flannel shirt adorned with the buttons and patches of different underground punk bands no one’s ever heard of.

Raccoon freed himself from the lumberjack punk’s embrace and pointed to Carter.  “Carter, meet Party Marty.”  Party Marty beamed at him and offered his hands with a ‘What’s up, man.  Anybody who’s cool with Raccoon is cool with me.’  Marty took them inside the warehouse to give Carter the noob’s tour.  They stepped into a small office lobby converted into a box office.  Posters of bands that had performed here on sleeping-bag-and-shoestring-budget tours covered the walls.

Carter’s attention was focused on the fallen angel eyeing him playfully from behind the counter.

Long, raven hair worn in the trademark Bettie Page style accented her olive-tan complexion.  Subtle red lip stick clashed with her curious green eyes.  A black Misfits t-shirt met the tattered denim skirt hugging her hourglass curves, and her slender legs sported black leather Doc Marten boots.  He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to compare his vinyl records with hers or eat her face.

“Five bucks,” she said. She held the stamp and ink pad expectantly.  Carter fumbled in his pocket and pulled out wadded Ones.

“Aw, damn,” he said disappointedly, “I’ve only got three…”

She shrugged.  “It’s cool.  Just donate what you have.” And he did.

Party Marty and Raccoon led him into the main warehouse, magnificently adorned with punk murals of guitars, skulls, flowers, band logos, the giant circled jagged A that was the anarchy symbol.  Christmas lights lined the walls and people were kicking it, drinking their booze inside and passing a peace pipe just outside the loading bay.  It was incredible.

Carter looked back to the box office to notice that beautiful punk queen sneaking a peek at him.  She blushed and smiled.

When the bands began to play, over a hundred people crowded into that warehouse.  They jumped, danced, fist pumped, moshed, and the music vibrations from the loud stage speakers flowed through them like ripples in water.  Carter was dancing with the Hispanic Bettie Page who’d been eyeing him, and before long they were making out.  She was intoxicating to look at and to touch.

That’s when it hit him.  The fucked up war, Hemingway House, this network of people literally entertaining themselves, the donations, and the beautiful chaos of the music.  It finally occurred to him.  No need for government.  No need for authority…

Carter was months out of the Corps, but he was finally home.

END

* * *

Marines photo courtesy of Eternal Spectator. VLHS photo courtesy of OC Weekly.

Underground Punk Rock and Spontaneous Order—The Boredom, Dispatch 4

I woke up as the sun’s rays began to brighten the inside of a beat up Ford F250.  I was folded up in the back seat while Midshipman occupied the front.  He looked like a bear coming out of hibernation.  We both climbed out of the truck and quickly ran out of the shade and into the warmth of the sun.

We got to the edge of the lower meadow when we realized the sunrise over the mountain valley was breathtaking.  Midshipman and I split my last two cigarettes and stood smoking in silence as we took in the sun.  It was a deeply reassuring feeling becoming one with nature.

This was Sunday morning—Day 10 of The Boredom.

After an indeterminate amount of time we piled into the truck and took a rocky dirt road over to the upper meadow, a mile or two away.  There was a turnout on the road, trimmed by a ranch-style minimal wood fence that fed into a path.  At the end of the path which took me a short way into the meadow stood a lone cabin.

The cabin was built there in 1859.  William F. Holcomb and Ben Choteau, prospectors from Bear Valley, found gold in 1860 while tracking a bear in the next valley north.  The discovery triggered a gold rush in San Bernardino County and by 1861 “Belleville” (the town named after the first child born in the valley).  However, the boom quickly busted and Belleville was virtually a ghost town by 1864, and literally a ghost town by 1870.  I suspect the folks there got caught up in the drama of the Civil War, which even affected California.

Breakfast consisted of leftover pizza from the night before—Midshipman heated up over the engine.  We ate our pizza and let the warm sun and cold wind confuse and torture our bodies.  Despite the elements being harsh up there, it was invigorating just being exposed to them.  By 10:30 we began the bumpy trek down the mountain.

What a hell of a weekend it had been!

Monday, Day 11, was largely uneventful.  I wrote and I worked on manuscripts, and I made excuses not to go to the gym.  I put a metaphorical gun to my own head and wrote the third dispatch for The Boredom, which was published to the Rants blog later that evening.

I did attend my weekly Civil Air Patrol squadron meeting—the first Monday of the month is always Commander’s Call and awards ceremony.  I took a ton of photos of CAP members just going about their business.

Chartered by Congress, Civil Air Patrol is the U.S. Air Force Auxiliary, a civilian volunteer organization authorized to wear paramilitary uniforms and carry out search-and-rescue and disaster relief missions on behalf of the Air Force.  I’ve been an auxiliary airman for three and a half years, on top of my two years as a military contractor and seven years in the state guard.

I spent the morning of Day 12, Tuesday, editing and preparing the photos from Commander’s Call for uploading to the squadron Facebook fan page.  I spent a few solid hours working on manuscripts and an hour or two slaying orcs on The Lord of the Rings Online.  Good times!  Later that evening I prepared the thirtieth installment of Five Libertarian Ideas for next-day publication on the Rants blog.

Wednesday/Day 13 I went to the gym and worked out like a fiend.  My body and mind equally needed it.  While doing cardio on the machines I started a new book—War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning, by Chris Hedges—as if I needed any more books to read.  I still have a pile I either haven’t started or haven’t finished.  Each and every one is outstanding, and I can’t put either of them down, at least until I find the next one.

That night I linked up with one of my close friends, Aqua Bat.  He’s been a friend since childhood, from Scouting, and we really started hanging out a lot after high school ended.  Aqua Bat is an interesting character.  He’s a new-school stoner with a love for punk and ska music.  His preference for Converse shoes, shorts, and brightly knitted Baja jackets and beanies give him the look of an orphan rescued and raised by a Peruvian flute band.

We drove down into a seedy-looking industrial area of lower Pomona—we were south of Holt Avenue and east of the 71.  Our objective was the VLHS warehouse, an amazing little place tucked away in between shipping warehouses and welding garages, far out of ear shot in its location at this time of night.  It’s the ideal place to hold a concert, throw a party, get wild, you name it!

VLHS—named after the show producer’s high school—is DIY (do-it-yourself) punk at its finest.  As a matter of fact, this is full-on underground punk rock.  There are no permits, no insurance, no mass-posted flyers letting anyone know the shows at this location are approved and open to the public.  There is only a private lease paid in cash between the show producers and the property owner.  The shows are promoted by word of mouth and Facebook, to a very limited extent.

The shows at VLHS are technically illegal.  We don’t care.  For us it’s about freedom of assembly, freedom of expression, and voluntary association.  Spontaneous order happens every night there’s a show at VLHS.  It’s BYOB, and everyone’s either holding a beer can, a bottle of liquor, cigarettes (for your non-drinkers), and the harder stuff people are encouraged to do inside their car or on the other side of the building.

The “donation” is paid at the door, and all participants are aware that this is private property.  Moreover, the DIY punk rockers and supporters here police themselves.  Serious drama involves the cops, and the police typically frown on untaxed, unpermitted, unregulated concerts.  So everyone solves problems between themselves and no drama ensues.

Aqua Bat and I hadn’t been to a VLHS show in nearly a year. It felt good to be back among familiar sounds and familiar faces.  I love punk rock, not just the juxtaposed simplicities and complexities hidden in the chords and lyrics, but for its spirit of rebellion and a determination of individuals not to be ruled.  Not bad for a Wednesday night!

Thursday was a blur—I went to bed late on Wednesday night and paid for it with a late morning.  I shambled off to the gym, got in a decent work out, and reflected on Chris Hedges’ philosophical essays on war.

Day 15, Friday, I spent most of the day fine-tooth combing through some texts on the Vietnam War for a writing project that’s been slowly developing over the last few months. I’m nowhere near ready to announce this, but this project will be one of my proudest scholarly achievements. 

Friday night saw Aqua Bat and I return for another show at VLHS.  Punk rock women are some of the most attractive on the planet.  There’s just something about the way they pull off leather and black without going full Goth  Then their off-beat hair (usually dark with a neon highlight or two), and the whole mysterious persona they wear along with their torn jeans…  Life is good.

Day 16, Saturday was an obnoxiously early start.  It wasn't yet 6 AM as I tore myself away from sleep and started shuffling into my Army Combat Uniform.  I picked up a large jerky stick, a Powerade, and a Red Bull and made the 45-minute commute to the National Guard armory I drill at once a month.

It was December drill, cut short by the usual annual family-friendly barbeque banquet.  The banquet was at noon, so morning-time had a lot of ridiculous standing around.  Whatever.  I was at all the places I needed to be and I got my tasks done.  Better yet, I had time to coach some junior enlisted soldiers about a few career matters involving the uniform.  I find it ironic as hell that the majority of soldiers in the state guard are in their 40s and 50s—it’s Title 32 militia, after all.  Then here I am, 25 years old, outranking dozens of people.  I guess I really have been in 7 years!

* * *

All photos used in this post are the property of the author.

Break ups, Evil relatives, and Partying in Big Bear (The Boredom—Week 1, Part 2)

Thank you for reading about my continuing exploits on my quest.  I’m trying to fill my holiday season with actions that are productive and/or meaningful to me before I go back to working at the job I love.

Catch up with Dispatch 1 and Dispatch 2.

Wednesday—Day Five of The Boredom—started out with the major downer of making the phone call to break it off with a brief fling who blatantly got my hopes up and led me on.  She never responded with even a single written word, but it still had to be done.  I kept my side of the street clean and I wash my hands of it.

The next thing I did was make a donation to my favorite ministry and charity, the Voice of the Martyrs.  I specified for the donation be directed to the Iraqi Christians Relief Fund.  VOTM needs all the help they can get, with the devastation of ISIS’ genocidal war of expansion.

By late morning I heard back from my friend who’d made an ass out of us both in Lake Arrowhead.  He had the money he owed me from the night before but arrogantly played down his behavior.  I was not impressed, and am still disappointed to see this type of behavior in someone I so highly regard.

The Rail Side Cafe

I pushed all the drama out of my head with a relaxing lunch at the Rail Side Café in San Dimas, CA.  I’m in love with this new mom-and-pop eatery.  They balance the minimalist motif of a hip coffee shop with the nostalgia for the heyday of trains—ultimately the reason my hometown grew from a 19^th century work camp.  I ate one of the best damn Paninis I’ve ever had while I read a few chapters from Empire State.

Overall, the day was remarkably productive.  I wrote a lot that day, got some important things done at home, and also significantly grew my social media following.  This is all good prep work to benefit me when I launch the American Liberty Library, my independent publishing house.

Day Six was Thanksgiving Day.  In the late morning I drove to my sister’s house on the other side of town and helped her prepare two turkeys and some pecan pies for Thanksgiving dessert.  I’d already busted a mission with my nephew to the crowded supermarket and helped my sister make pumpkin pies the night before.

Thanksgiving dinner went well overall.  It was remarkably pleasing to have the big family together for the holiday feast.  This included my parents, my oldest sister and her three kids, my aunt (mother’s sister), and another family member who prattled with endless tacky sarcasm the whole evening, as if she knew what she was talking about or anyone remotely took her seriously.  (You really don’t get to choose your relatives).

The dinner was mouth-watering.  We had two full-sized turkeys, breaded green beans, stuffing, mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, and a number of other entrees. For dessert we had our choice of multiple pecan pies, pumpkin pies, and cheese cakes.  I washed everything down with pint-mugs of non-alcoholic beer (I’ll explain in Week Six why I don’t drink).  Days later, I still feel bloated from the feast suitable for Roman senators.  Whatever, it was worth it!

On Day 7, Friday, I spent a good chunk of time updating the look and feel of my blog.  Since it’s grown in quality, content, and audience, I wanted a look to it that’s more professional yet edgy than the cookie-cutter dark gray theme I previously used.  I also spent a few hours working on restoring manuscripts for some excellent books on liberty, especially freedom of speech and freedom of religion.

Midshipman and his Russian rifle

Friday night I was actively trying to avoid the Black Friday rush, so I swung by my friend’s house—we’ll call him Midshipman.  We talked of business and pleasure while he calibrated his hunting gun—a 1938 Mosin Nagant, still bearing Red Army insignia—and we had way too much tobacco.

Day 8, Saturday, was a remarkably good day.  I headed over to the San Dimas Barber Shop located in downtown—the name of the city escapes me.  I’ve been getting my hair cut here for nearly a year and it’s a place I truly enjoy being at.  For me, the haircut is the main objective, but it’s only part of the whole experience.

I prefer to be a patron of a barber who’s personable and can carry a good conversation, not just small talk.  I also look for a good ambiance.  The barbers need to show both skill and a willingness to work with a blade, not just relying on clippers.  Finally, the barber shop needs some kind of gimmick that can’t be found in most other places.

Brent being a smart ass while I'm trying to take a photo.

The San Dimas shop is decked out on the inside with a vintage late 1950s-early 60s theme; red leather seats, black and white checkerboard tile floor, and the walls are adorned with 45 rpm records, pictures of time period celebrities, diners, movie posters, artifacts, etc.  Those who know me vouch for my love of everything rockabilly.  The barbers there—Steve, Jerry, and Brent—are all great guys, very personable, and easy to get to know.  I always have a blast trading friendly insults and updates on life with them.  Better yet, they’re all talented barbers.

However, what that really sells it for me is my main guy, Brent, offers an old-fashioned straight razor shave.  This includes treatment with hot and cold towels, warm face lathers, the super-close shave itself, astringent, and aftershave.  In Brent’s own words, “This is how gentlemen pamper themselves.”

Add to that the doo wop and surf rock always playing in the shop, and in the back corner is a vintage county fair-style popcorn machine.  That means every time I go to the barber shop, I get to kick back, hear the music I love most, and munch on tasty butter popcorn while I wait to get my hair cut.

After the barbershop, I headed home to throw some cold weather clothes and key supplies in my small duffel bag.  Midshipman and I were going camping for a night!  He picked me up in his mammoth white 1982 Ford F250 and we rumbled up to Big Bear Lake at 55 mph.

Upon reaching the lake on Route 330, we hooked a northbound left.  Our objective was Holcomb Valley, the next valley over from Big Bear.  We drove (and bounced) up a rough dirt road for 6 miles until we found our campsite.  The sunset was exquisite, but we needed to eat.

We had pizza at a decent sports bar and pizzeria and shared our big table with another party.  To our good fortune, we were sitting with a pair of bail bondsmen, and we spent dinner discussing the juicy details of various white collar criminals, gang members, and murderers running around Hemet on high bails.

After dinner we parked the truck and waded through the traffic in Big Bear Village—we completely forgot it was Saturday night in a resort town on a holiday weekend.  That just made things even better!

The HiFi Academy

Midshipman and I ended up at Whiskey Dave’s, a classy fusion between sports bar/grill and dive bar, with pool tables, a dance floor, and a dining area.  We were lucky to see a live performance by the Los Angeles-based HiFi Acedemy.  These guys played some of the best classic rock covers I’ve ever heard.  I’m talking about AC/DC, Guns ‘N Roses, Ozzy Osbourne, Def Leppard, you name it!  The HiFi Academy played their asses off, and I rocked out to their sets for hours.

Not only were all the band members really cool and down-to-earth folks, the keyboardist Melissa was really cute and definitely stole my heart during the show.  What man with a brain wouldn’t appreciate a pretty woman who can rock like Angus Young in his heyday?

In between sets, I met and talked with at least 20 cool and interesting people with unique stories and backgrounds.  There were also a lot of marines there; I learned that Pendleton marines are the dickheads and 29 Palms marines are cool as hell.  (I think part of it is their sunburned co-existence in the Mojave Desert with the Army.)  I danced with a lot of beautiful ladies, shot pool with some genuinely kind and fun-loving guys and girls—one of them was a Catalonian from Barcelona, and we discussed the rumors of Barcelona’s independence from Madrid.

Hanging out with new friends

At 1 in the morning, Midshipman and I walked back through the beautifully lit, empty streets of the village.  Save for the occasional taxi, we were the only souls walking the streets.  We got to the truck and drove back to Holcomb Valley.  Before putting down our bedding and wrapping up in thermals, we took a moment to stop and stare in wonder at the night sky.

There were thousands of stars above the clearing in the pine trees.  I hadn’t seen Orion the Hunter, or the stars glittering inside his outline, shine so brightly in at least ten years.  The whole panoramic picture in my eyes reminded me of these verses:

The heavens declare the glory of God;

    the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech;

    night after night they reveal knowledge.

They have no speech, they use no words;

    no sound is heard from them.

Yet their voice[b] goes out into all the earth,

    their words to the ends of the world.

Psalm 19:1-4

As a thick cover of clouds quickly rolled in over us, we bedded down in the F250 and went to sleep.

* * *

Rail Side Cafe photo courtesy of the Rail Side Cafe.  All other photos are my own. Copyright lawyers buzz off.

Apolitical Punk Rockers Are Like Vichy France

To all my fellow punk rock and metal aficionados, I open with this message: if the title of this rant offends you, I’m well pleased with my work and will now defend the simple statement which brought you angrily to this page and ultimately raised my Google ranking.

We all know, or should know, what Vichy France is famous for: surrender and collaboration during World War II.  I am by NO means calling punks Nazis or Nazi sympathizers.  What I am doing is criticizing their apolitical tendencies.  So many people in the punk and metal music scenes are avowedly apolitical.  They’re convinced “the system” is completely rigged (which it largely is) and they refuse to participate in the system or the “political machine.”  Many of them also advocate anarchy.

The problem in the punk scene is that most anarchists’ understanding of anarchy itself and spontaneous order is very superficial, which ultimately makes their belief in anarchy superficial as well.  Recall that the fascist French State’s existence resulted from a surrender of the French armed forces in the early battle for France and a desire to spare the French people and infrastructure from German destruction.  Many French cities, towns, and landmarks were destroyed in World War I as the Germans advanced through much of France.  Paris itself would have become a trench battlefield had the U.S. Marines not pushed the Germans back at Belleau Wood.  The widespread destruction of the First World War was not forgotten, and the French people had no desire to see their country destroyed again.

The French did not surrender or collaborate because they particularly liked the Germans or fascism.  They felt they had lost the war and they gave up, settling for what they thought was the lesser of two evils to avoid total destruction as a nation and people.

The majority of the French people equally despised the Vichy French government and the Third Reich.  Still, they tolerated daily life under the puppet government and the German occupiers.  They tolerated the military and police checkpoints and kept their mouths shut in order to avoid arrest.  They had very little, if any, say in governmental affairs and mostly lived an apolitical life, simply trying to survive with their families.  They figured they were screwed, so they gave up.  The fact that they lived outside of the system did not make the Vichy French government or the Third Reich any weaker, nor did it create any difficulties for the oppressive fascist authorities.

This same apathetic defeatism towards the political process is rampant in the punk scene.  Punks are convinced that nothing they do will matter so they’re better off just staying outside of politics.  There’s a fatal flaw in their logic: the resignation of the people in Vichy France neither rolled back the German invaders nor stopped the authorities from arresting random people and killing Jews.  So too the non-participation of punks in politics doesn’t scale back the size and reach of oppressive government nor does it prevent it from over-taxing the working people, sending people to prison for marijuana, or waging undeclared wars abroad.

Anarcho-communism

However, while they may be apolitical, most punk rockers hold onto some kind of political ideology or personal philosophy which shapes their worldview.  Many people in the music scene are in love with Karl Marx’s lofty-sounding ideas even though they’re highly self-contradictory and inconsistent with human nature.  According to Marxist theory, there are three stages of history remaining: capitalism, with bourgeois government that favors the so-called 1%; socialism, which demands a huge proletarian government to take over all sectors of the economy and civil society; and communism, with no government, no monetary system, and total harmony among humankind.

If the punks and metal heads shouting “Anarchy!” were familiar with the groundbreaking work of Murray Rothbard, the greatest anarchist intellectual and one of the greatest libertarians who ever lived, they would find their entire worldview radically changed for the better.  In “The Death Wish of the Anarcho-Communists,” Rothbard explains that even though anarcho-capitalism and anarcho-communism advocate libertarian ideas, the latter is doomed to fail while only the former can succeed.

Anarcho-communism can’t exist because the maximum liberty talked about in the theory actually breaks down and disappears during the socialist stage of history.  After all, how can there be liberty when the government is very large, the state runs all parts of society, and all members of society are servants of the state?  Not only is there a lack of freedom, but no one is allowed to make a profit or any kind of gain over anyone else, which destroys people’s incentive to work hard and excel.  All of this kills progress and prosperity.  This is exactly what happened in the Soviet Union.  People like to blame Stalin for killing socialism’s big chance to succeed, as if Soviet socialism was a warped product of Stalin.  In reality, Stalin was merely a product of the easily corruptible Marxist system, just as Jim Crow was the product of harsh Reconstruction and today’s incomprehensible Ozzy Osbourne is the product of too much substance-enhanced partying.

Murray N. Rothbard

Murray Rothbard makes a strong case for anarcho-capitalism and libertarian ideas.  Aside from his monolithic books, Rothbard has penned hundreds of groundbreaking essays and articles that would serve as excellent portals into the libertarian and anarchist philosophy.  A great article of his and an equally great starting point for new libertarians is “War, Peace, and the State” which explains the libertarian non-aggression principle—as free individuals, I agree not to hurt you if you agree not to hurt me—and how war and plunder are necessary for the health of the oppressive state.

Rothbard’s essay “Anatomy of the State” (also published as a short book) expounds on the predatory nature of governments and “the state” against individuals and their liberty.  Especially compelling is the way he portrays “government” as small, elite collections of individuals using the broad powers of a legal fiction called “the state” to oppress and prey on other individuals.  “Left, Right, and the Prospects for Liberty” shatters the narrow illusion of the political left and the political right.  The illusion to which I refer is familiar to everyone: even if a person is neither “Democrat” nor “Republican,” they’re still expected to belong either to “the left” or “the right” of the political spectrum, as if there was no middle ground or third alternative.  “Left, Right” continues in making a case for libertarianism and maximum liberty for the individual as the third alternative.  Such would be the ideal system for punks and others in the music scene, since rock ‘n’ roll itself symbolizes a rebellion from the conventional norms of mainstream society and the desire of rockers to govern their own lives and determine their own destiny.

Most punks and others on this side of the rock ‘n’ roll macro-community are determined to remain apolitical and not participate in the political process.  They fail to understand, however, that the political process is not at all limited to the voting booth on Election Day.  The political process includes activism and education in order to change people’s minds and attitudes, enacting change in the national dialogue, eventually enacting change in public policy (i.e. law and government actions).

If the wannabe anarchists in the music scene read Rothbard’s groundbreaking works, they would find not only a solid foundation for establishing deep beliefs, but they would also be moved to become politically involved. Their involvement in the political process as agents of change could start a chain of events that would eventually rollback and repeal layers of government, giving maximum freedom to the individual.  In this digital age where media, communication, and networking are easily done with a click, punks have more power than they’re willing to give themselves credit for.

Going back to World War II, most of the French may have given up and tolerated the Third Reich and its puppet Vichy government, but there was a core of noble people who didn’t.  Small groups of passionate men and women with firearms, contraband publications, and intelligence networks formed the noble French Resistance.  It was these loosely coordinated groups of courageous people who fought with everything they could and made life difficult for the fascists.  Had it not been for these people, the invasion and liberation of France by the Allied forces would not have been nearly as successful.  Had the Resistance not performed during their finest hour, the Allied advance through France and Western Europe would have been significantly slower, many more Allied troops would have been killed, and the Holocaust wouldn’t have been stopped until much later.

Members of the Resistance taken prisoner by the fascist Milice

Many punks use the corruption of the American political process to justify their nonparticipation.  Even though our government today is guilty of committing the same grievances the founding fathers had against Great Britain at the time of the American Revolution, we have not been forced to take up arms for violent revolution.  Today we’re incredibly lucky that we have the privilege of engaging in a peaceful revolution already in motion on the political scene.  It’s now possible and essential for as many people to be involved in politics as possible.  Our battlefields are the street corners, the talk shows and blogs, and the ballot box.  Those who are involved are the lifeblood of our unique American democracy.

Those who choose not to participate make it easier for democracy to be hijacked by special interests who write laws in their own favor, especially by government entities that grow themselves and grant themselves infinitely more power.  American democracy must be preserved in order to roll back government and restore maximum individual liberty.  Whether a person believes in limited government or anarchy—no government at all—it’s irresponsible to simply proclaim an idea without doing anything whatsoever to help make it a reality.

Hence, whenever I wear my Ron Paul t-shirt to a show and some nitwit throws up his fist and shouts “Anarchy!” I can only do a face-palm to occupy my hand, which otherwise would have been used to slap him for his ignorance.  After all, that nitwit’s become no different from the pseudo-intellectual hipster who throws around names like Jean-Paul Sartre and Noam Chomsky without having a true understanding of their ideas (but that’s a whole other rant for another day).  Where I come from we call these pseudo-intellectuals “phonies.”

Ron Paul—a member of the Republican Party, of all parties!—is the first great statesman in modern-day America to bring lofty ideas of limited government and maximum individual liberty to the table in an inspiring manner.  His run for the Presidency truly changed the national dialogue.  For the first time, people of all ages and political persuasions are discussing abolishing the Federal Reserve banking cartel, ending the War on Drugs, and rolling back the American Empire by bringing all troops home and not policing the world.

"Dr. Ron Paul" by Caleb O'Connor

Paul’s ideas resonated with a lot of people.  Between the combined primary election and caucus votes across the country, Paul’s platform of liberty and tolerance earned over 2 million votes.  Paul may not have won the GOP nomination, but he inspired at least 100,000 college students to share his ideas and sign up to become activists who will inevitably achieve a snowball effect in popularizing libertarian ideas.  Many of these young activists have joined the Republican Party and are currently swinging its platform from an oppressive neoconservative one to a libertarian one.

Better yet, Paul’s ideas are becoming increasingly mainstream, even penetrating the music scene.  Celebrity musicians from all genres are subscribing to libertarian ideas.  Pop singers Kelly Clarkson and John Mayer endorsed Ron Paul.  ANTiSEEN’s Joe Young has made libertarianism his philosophy, as well as blues guitarist Jimmy Vaughn and country star Dwight Yoakam.  Perhaps the most famous libertarian punk rocker is former Misfits front man Michale Graves, a passionate Ron Paul supporter who continues to advocate libertarian ideas.  Graves will soon be touring to promote his new “Vagabond” album.

If one man managed to convince millions of voters, inspire hundreds of thousands of activists, and change the national dialogue, what is every punk rocker’s excuse for not participating?  Murray Rothbard wrote and educated.  Ron Paul ran for office and inspired large masses.  You and I must carry the ideas of maximum liberty and rugged individualism into civil society and to the ballot box.

What the apathetic people in the music scene are failing to grasp is that American democracy does not have to be top-down.  Federal elections may be easily corrupted, but the same isn’t true for city council elections.  How difficult is it to rally around a level-headed member of the community?  One who believes the police are better utilized going after burglars and robbers than pot smokers, who thinks the local school board ought to have more sway over the curriculum than the lobbyist-owned bureaucrats in the U.S. Department of Education, and that a permit shouldn’t be required every time more than two people want to practice their First Amendment right in public…  Such people exist, but they’ll never be found as long as we in the punk and metal communities (and all other communities) maintain apathetic attitudes.

Now that you’ve read this you must ask yourself: will you be like Vichy France or will you join the peaceful resistance?

* * *

Anarcho-capitalism image obtained from Wikimedia Commons and is in the public domain. Anarcho-communism image was obtained from Mises.org via CC BY 3.0 license. Rothbard portrait obtained from Wikimedia Commons courtesy of Mises.org via the same license.

French Milice and Resistance POWs photo courtesy of Sammlung von Repro-Negativen (Bild 146) through the German Federal Archives. It was obtained from Wikimedia Commons and used via CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

Ron Paul painting is the work and property of Caleb O'Connor.  Use of the image does not necessarily mean Mr. O'Connor endorses the views in the article and is used primarily to promote Mr. O'Connor's work.  See more of his excellent paintings at CalebOConnor.com

I originally submitted this article for the Mises Daily but the editor at Mises.org blew me off twice.  Poo on you, sir.