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"Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance and vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing about art or sex that you couldn't read in any trendy new york underground fashion magazine. Proto-typical non-conformist, you are a vacuous soldier of the thrift store gestapo. You adhere to a set of standards and tastes that appear to be determined by an unseen panel of hipster judges (bullshit); giving the thumbs up and thumbs down to incoming and outgoing trends and styles of music and art. 'Go analog baby! You're so post-modern!' You're diving face forward into an antiquated past, it's disgusting! It's offensive! Don't stick your nose up at me! What do you have to say for yourself?
You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends, pontificating to each other, forever competing for that one moment of self aggrandizing glory in which you hog the intellectual spotlight; holding dominion over the entire shallow, pointless conversation. 'Oh, we're not worthy!'
When you walk by a group of quote-unquote "normal" people, you chuckle to yourself, patting yourself on the back as you scoff. It's the same superiority complex shared by the high school jocks who made your life a living hell, and it makes you a slave to the competitive capitalist dogma you spend every moment of your waking life bitching about. I'm proud of my life and the things that I have done, proud of myself, and the loner I've become. You're free to whine. It will not get you far. I do just fine, my car and my guitar."
-Max Bemis, "Admit It"
"The new world order reeks of dying empire odor and changing the channel wont make that go away. As the veneer of democracy fades away, as the worlds down-sized until it explodes, as the shanty-towns piled behind the malls become visible, as the savages on the other side of the wall break through, as everybody from gun-crazy militias to anti-immigrant nazis to fundamentalist child-raping christians to gangsta rappers to community activists to working families just struggling to put food on the table, all mad at the same thing: your SUV; "me, me, me!"; "mission accomplished"; "bring em on!"; "buy more stuff, buy more stuff, fight terror, defend freedom so we can buy more stuff!" false illusion of the world is going down, motherfucker. Walk off your job. Crime is beautiful. A prank a day keeps the dog-leash away. Quit your jobs. Burn down the malls. Your time is up."
-Jello Biafra, "Baby Punchers"
"Can you give me sanctuary? I must find a place to hide. A place for me to hide... Can you find me, soft asylum? I can't make it anymore. The Man is at the door. Peppermint, miniskirts, chocolate candy. Champion sax and a girl named Sandy. There's only four ways to get unraveled; One is to sleep and the other is travel. One is a bandit up in the hills. One is to love your neighbor 'till his wife gets home. Catacombs, nursery bones, winter women growing stones, carrying babies to the river...
Streets and shoes, avenues, leather riders selling news. The monk bought lunch. Successful hills are here to stay. Everything must be this way. Gentle streets where people play... welcome to the soft parade. All our lives we sweat and save, building for a shallow grave. Must be something else we say, somehow to defend this place. Everything must be this way. The Soft Parade has now begun, listen to the engines hum. People out to have some fun; A cobra on my left, leopard on my right. The deer woman in a silk dress. Girls with beads around their necks kiss the hunter of the green vest, who has wrestled before with lions in the night, out of sight.
The lights are getting brighter. The radio is moaning. Calling to the dogs. There are still a few animals left out in the yard. But it's getting harder to describe sailors to the underfed. Tropic corridor, tropic treasure, what got us this far to this mild equator?
We need someone or something new, something else to get us through. Callin' all the dogs, callin' on the gods. You gotta meet me, its too late baby. Slay a few animals at the crossroads. Too late. All in the yard. But it's gettin' harder. By the crossroads, you gotta meet me. Oh, we're goin', we're goin great. At the edge of town... tropic corridor, tropic treasure. Havin' a good time, got to come along. What got us this far To this mild equator? Outskirts of the city. You and I, we need someone new. Somethin' new. Somethin' else to get us through. Better bring your gun. Tropic corridor, tropic treasure. We're gonna ride and have some fun.
When all else fails, we can whip the horse's eyes, and make them sleep... and cry."
-Jim Morrison, "The Soft Parade"