Punk'd
By Yvonne Zipter

Hoping to improve my street cred, I went to hear a lesbian punk band at a men's leather bar on St. Patrick's Day. Right away, you know from my having used the phrase "street cred" that I have none since by now I'm sure that phrase has gone the way of "word!" and "fashizzle." But like a friend of mine who, wearing a leather jacket on an eighty-degree day, told me she dresses for mood not weather, I use words not for their hip quotient but because I like the way they sound. At least that's my story and I'm sticking with it. So when you hear me utter phrases like "groovy" and "righteous," please bear that in mind.

"Street cred," however, is the least of the problems with that sentence. Oh, I'm pretty sure it's grammatically correct (another death blow to my street cred, I'm sure), but my primary relationship to punk heretofore has been carving punkins at Halloween, and unlike my moody friend, I don't even own a leather jacket. Also, I can't remember the last time we went to a bar—and that's not just because I have bad short-term memory. We likes the dancing, my gal Kathy and I. We'd just like to do it at a more reasonable hour. In a place where, in order to see one another, we don't have to peer through a haze of cigarette smoke. Sure, it's less exciting, sitting on the couch in our living room, but boy, is it comfortable.

Still, when one of the rockers in question is a friend, you brave the elements: the smoke, the sticky floor, the fat cover charge, the expensive drinks. Plus it's a cultural experience. Some people go to art museums; we go to a leather bar to hear young lesbians play really loud music. And of course, it's not just the music we got to experience, there was the whole environment. Strangely enough, we were less surprised by the presence of a real live Barbie drag doll—dressed in spiked heels and a leopard skin miniskirt, with a pencil-thin mustache—than we were by the large contingent of middle-aged straight-seeming folk who looked like they'd wandered in from a nearby PTA meeting. But we didn't stay to find out why they were there. A half hour of toe-tapping, head-banging angry music, and we were ready to mosey home to our hot chocolate and Irish soda bread.

Though I might prefer my angry music to have a more sly, satirical edge to it, I'm really proud of Renee: coming late to guitar herself, she is organizing, with her band mates and friends, a summer punk-rock day camp for girls ages 10-16 in Chicago. When we told our friend Catalina about the camp, she said, "That's just wrong!" We were worried that we'd need to reevaluate our friendship with her, but she continued, "You can't rein in the anarchy of punk in a day camp setting!" Sign this woman up as a counselor!

Actually, nearly ever woman we've told about the camp wishes she could go. And those that didn't, have daughters who want to go. Kathy, always the responsible one, reminded Renee, "They'll be underage, so remember: you can't pierce or tattoo them"—which didn't strike the mother of one of the potential campers quite as funny as it struck us. But while Renee welcomes recruits from us, Girls Rock! Chicago (girlsrockchicago.org) is actually hoping to offer scholarships to girls who might not otherwise have the resources to attend. They've already gotten some sponsors, have a venue lined up, and applied for nonprofit status. Uh, when I was in college, I took Spanish and knew where to buy a good bratwurst on campus.

But then, when I was in college, I didn't have my own website (let's ignore, for now, the fact there wasn't even a web when I was in college—unless it was in biology class, and ducks or spiders were under discussion). And if I would have had my own website back then, I doubt I would have said anything quite so hip as "gamine thief met in a dark chicago alley on a cold, rainy night....they mixed two electric guitars with words and drums and things got really hott. they like books and girls and change and punk and film in that order. they practice in the stockyards and don't eat meat."

No need for them to up their street cred.

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