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own work, including the poem I have just cited. The poet drank himself
to death in 1965 at the age of forty. The term antisocial is a common misnomer insofar as one can often find the impulse for sociality in this being
and acting differently of difficult characters like Spicer. The antisociality of a hard-drinking gay poet or punk icon with an active death-wish
habit is certainly nothing like the fantasy of antirelationality that is put
forth in a few contemporary schools of academic inquiry, including, but
not limited to, certain strands of psychoanalytically oriented gay studies that wish to convince us that any socially oriented cultural analysis
is nothing more than delusional disavowal. More interestingly, objectoriented ontology, a movement in contemporary theory that attempts to
contemplate the object before relationality, offers readers a chance for
greater attunement to objects but in doing so often eschews relationality
altogether. Spicer theorized relationality across generational lines when he
described what he called a "queer genealogy" of poetry where he located
himself in relation to Federico Garcia Lorca, Arthur Rimbaud, and a
generation of younger poets with whom he was in contact. In the opening poem, we see him focus on a line from Edgar Allan Poe, whose dark
and mysterious nature may partially align him with this queer genealogy.
There are of course many queer genealogies, and they lead to sites and
movements that are not always self-declared as queer or even LGBT. To
think along these grooves we should resist the impulse to simply "queer"
an object, phenomenon, or historical moment and instead attend to it with
an understanding of lines of queer genealogical connectivity as something
other than tautological. The challenge here is to look to queerness as a
mode of "being-with" that defies social conventions and conformism and
is innately heretical yet still desirous for the world, actively attempting to
enact a commons that is not a pulverizing, hierarchical one bequeathed
through logics and practices of exploitation.
As a thought experiment, I am interested in extending this dark
queer genealogy that does not lead to a site of avowed or even coherent
queer self-actualization. I open with a poem by a weird precursor to queer
punk aesthetics. Spicer's life, and to some extent his work, was dark. He
spoke to and from a negativity that I think of as the animating force of
queer punk. But Spicer is not the fish or seagull considered in this essay.
This malcontent gay poet and liberationist merely sets the stage for our
inquiry. Instead, this essay looks to circuits of being-with, in difference
and discord, that are laden with potentiality and that manifest the desire
to want something else. In this sense I want to consider the queerness and
the racially marked resonances of a historically specific punk scene. This
essay belongs to a sequence of writings that describes the early Los Angeles
punk scene as a punk rock commons that was marked by surging queer
and racialized singularities and energies. This iteration ofthe early punk
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tory and belonging to the realm of the clinamen. The central swerve of the
encounter is a collision that can be turbulent or harmonious, an essentially
incalculable concord ofthat which does, in Spicer's phrasing, not stoop to
definition. The crash of atoms becomes the crash of bodies in dark spaces,
the willful unharmonious crash of chords and notes, and in the early days
of one particular punk rock scene, the clash of young people from different
social geographies converging in dank little clubs in Hollywood.
Central to this notion of a punk rock commons is the lived politics of
the negative, a politics that is brazenly and usefully illustrated in the history of the early Los Angeles punk rock scene. Theories of the commons
emphasize idealist notions of collectivity that often feel Utopian. Thus the
idea of a punk rock commons that is simultaneously Utopian and marked
by negation seems contradictory at first glance. I propose that we can see
the negation that is negativity as something that can be strangely Utopian
while simultaneously dystopian. It can conterminously represent innovation and annihilation. At the heart of the punk rock commons one locates
the desire, indeed the demand, for "something else" that is not the holding
pattern of a devastated present, with its limits and impasses. This demand
is for a dystopia that functions like the Utopian. To that end, this essay's
central presence is the tragically doomed punk icon Darby Crash and
his legendary band the Germs. Crash is one in a series of queer oddballs
whom I have been thinking and writing around. His often quoted demand
for more, "Gimme gimme this, gimme gimme that," is the semiarticulate
demand for a world that is not the world of California in the late 1970s or
the burgeoning reality of Ronald Reagan's America.
Before I tell the story of the Germs and the place they occupy in the
history of American punk rock, I want to explicate my approach in relation to the band and its leader. I am writing from the position of both a
queer theorist and a fan. Fan is often a degraded term. Its conations can
include the unprofessional, the nonobjective, and the affectively overly
imbricated. I risk, and to some degree own, all these connotations for a
particular reason. Fan is also meant to mark that I was not "there" in the
time and place of the Masque club where the Germs performed or in Los
Angeles in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Instead, I followed the band as
a kid in the suburbs of Miami. I was thousands of miles away from the
music, musicians, spaces, and performances (both everyday and spectacular) that we discuss under the sign of the LA punk scene. But I was
there through the affective mode of being and feeling that we call fandom.
This is to say that listening to the Germs and some of the other bands in
and around that scene, especially X and the Gun Club, represented an
event in my lifea kind of falling in love that offered me a vital screen on
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not mean one avoids or sidesteps the real, messy, and unruly Darby Crash.
Crash had a fantasy about a Germs burn, which was a unique ritual
that imagined a certain futurity through the act of burning a circle onto the
flesh of a Germs devotee with a cigarette. The afterlife of Crash's ritualistic
scarring is the stuff of punk rock legend. Most famously, the band Matmos
paid tribute to the burn in their song "Germs Burn for Darby Crash"
(2006), a digital musique concrte composition that features the sound of
band member Drew Daniel's flesh being burned. Matmos's weirdly ambient tribute sonically transmits the pain and pleasure of the passage and
partage that the burn initiated. There are less edgy reverberations of the
burn than the Matmos song. Rodger Grossman's 2008 film What We Do
Is Secret narrates the almost mythological punk rock initiation ceremony.
The film depicts Crash's penchant for marking his fans and followers with
this indelible mark in fictionalized narrative form. The film is a somewhat
mainstream homage to the band. Those who enjoy their punk memoirs
dirty and unwashed, as anticommercial as possible, may not enjoy that
film's somewhat sanitized aesthetic. Yet it cannot totally be ignored by
the fan who collects and holds even those things that pretend to belong
to the event of the Germs. Therefore it seems like a pointless exercise to
denounce the biopicture like some punk purist. Instead, I want to suggest that it is useful to understand it and acknowledge its representational
force and its rendering of an event, in this case of a circle, a burn, and a
forcefieldof belonging through feelings, attachments, andfidelities.Bijou
Phillips plays the legendary Lorna Doom and Shane West took the role
of Darby Crash. In a pivotal scene Lorna Doom leans in for a kiss from
the film's antihero after Darby offers an especially tragic soliloquy about
belonging and not-belonging, but instead of the kiss, he gives her the burn.
This dramatic reenactment of the nasty little ritual of the Germs initiation burn is accompanied by a fantasy about a sort of future in which we
will be alienated, in which we will no longer be punks on the street acting out in parking lots and alleys, but consumers buying groceries, blank
and hollowed out by life. We will casually look down and catch sight of a
Germs burn and suddenly have a fellow traveler in our sights, someone
who holds that germ that marks one as belonging through the annihilative
act of burning flesh. The Germs burn is the mark of innovation, of queer
belonging-in-difference, or, equally, in secret. The .band's name itself is
important. The germ is not only a grubby pathogen, a^harbinger of disease,
but also the germ of a time and place where we rise up (from the stultifying
moments of alienation that are the presentness of our'lifemoments like
that at the checkout counterthere, in that line, the fictionalized Crash
argued, we would see a burn, which is a germ, marking the who that is
you, and it would signal the potential of our life to take the shape of something beyond the here and now. Suddenly, the checkout Une becomes the
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This imagined encounter is a bit more involved than the story of the
checkout line that becomes the check-in line. But it is similar. The song's
lyrics tell us about a moment of secret recognition. Eyes meet in "secret
glance" and bodies respond by taking on an "ancient stance." While
Crash did not write "gay songs," he composed music in his own closet
with an always-shattering glass door. The queer scenarios and energies
that run throughout his work are instantly glimpse-able if one has any
access to a queer sensibilitybe it owned, begged, borrowed, or stolen.
The story of "The Other Newest One" conjures the electrifying and
animating world of touching and breathing along with other boys in the
mosh pit. Theflaying,annihilative spectacle of a mosh pit was the gateway
for many boys to touch other boys without having to wear a helmet and
catch or throw balls in the air. It is through such moments of touching and
being touched, heavy breathing with and alongside the other newest ones,
as sweat mingles and hands linger, that we hear that whisper and know it is
good, that a certain acting crazy together is possible. Darby's lyrics render
a picture of the encounter where corporeal selves crash and careen into
each other and some kind of recognition becomes available. The song is an
ode to the lusty and sweaty scene of an aleatory encounter for queer boys;
it's the mosh pit as the scene of swerving and colliding kids as clinamen.
It is a rendering of a being-with that forms a provisional and temporary
commons through the encounter, and it happens under the sign of punk.
It is replete with queer animism but does not indulge in the holding pattern of naming this desire as anything but the style we call punk, which
we know to have partially emerged from violent scenes of incarceration,
yet goes on to stand in for a more general collision of people and objects
that can be simultaneously destructive and generative, annihilative and
innovative, insofar as it is the ground for enacting new modes of being in
the world and enacting a punk's uncommon commons.
One could look beyond the words and see this song performed to gain
an even fuller picture. Crude documentary footage ofthe Germs playing
the Whisky in 1979 lines up with most written accounts of the Germs'
shows.* Crash sings out of time with the band's spare chords and beats.
So much ofthe performance is Crash's scowling, swagger, and stumbling.
The speed and athleticism we associate with some punk is missing here.
Instead, a wasted and discombobulated Crash seems to stumble into the
audience where he is engulfed by a sea of boys. He is hoisted back onstage
where someone takes the microphone to say that "Darby Crash is not God,"
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which makes one think that the threat of Darby Crash being God was
somehow lingering in the air. Back onstage he attempts to pull himself up,
but his body seems to decide that the ground level of the stage may in fact
be the best place to bring his lyrics home. At the end, we see the famous
image that adorns the poster for The Decline of Western Civilization (1981)
of Crash on his back, his sputtering body, lying onstage, seemingly collapsed by the weight of his righteous punk rage. This image of the wasted
teen icon writhing on thefloor,looking conterminously pained and blissed
out, indexes the ways in which punk functioned as a visceral desire to want
something else within a field of ossified social relations.
While I have gone to some lengths to make a distinction between Darby
Crash the historical personage and the figure of Crash, making the point
that it is the figure of crash that conjures a sense of a commons, it seems
necessary to offer a brief outline of Crash's biography, which, after all,
functions as source material for the figure of Crash. Darby Crash was
born Jan Paul Beahm. Legend has it that he had a troubled family life.
The man he grew up believing was his biological father left his family. His older brother died of an overdose. During a teenage argument,
his sister revealed to him that his biological father was really a Swedish
sailor named William Bjrklund. He attended IPS (Innovative Program
School), a school within University High School in Los Angeles. Before
the Germs were the Germs, Beahm and Pat Smear (then Georg Ruthenberg, one of the only African Americans at the high school) called themselves Sophistifuck and the Revlon Spam Queens, but had to shorten this
name to the Germs. After first adopting the name Bobby Pyn, Beahm
changed his name to the less cutesy sounding Darby Crash. The final
lineup of the Germs included Crash, Smear, Doom, and drummer Don
Bolles. They struck their poses beautifully. The Germs' classic lineup
included a charismatic, self-destructive, and, more often than not, wasted
lead singer-songwriter, a black guitarist who would go on to play with
Nirvana and be the epicenter of another cultural moment, an extremely
cool-looking female bassist with perfect bleached white hair, and a seemingly guileless drummer from Arizona who served as a foil for the band
and who was often referred to as a "Cactus Head." Such a crew, including a queer, a woman, and a person of color, may have enacted a visual
iconography that appealed to many of the kids in the audience, but it is
nonetheless important to note that the most relevant identity locus at the
moment was punk itself, not race, gender, or sexuality. But this is also to
say that Hollywood punk was not then the predominantly white phenomenon that it would become when the Orange County hardcore punk scene
arose. The Germs played their first gig at the Orpheum Theatre in 1977
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and eventually broke up in 1980. Crash took his own life on December 7,
1980, at the age of twenty-two through a planned heroin overdose. It is
inaccurate to suggest, in the parlance of addiction, that the young punk
struggled with addiction since he had planned his demise through this
method for some time before his death.
Some of the data that informs our understanding of this biography
is gleaned from two deflning texts on the LA scene: We Got the Neutron
Bomb: The Untold Story afL.A. Punk by Marc Spitz and Brendan Mullen
and Lexicon Devil: The Fast Times and Short Life of Darby Crash and the
Germs by Mullen with Adam Parfrey and Germs drummer Bolles.' Both
books present alternating stories of Darby as a visionary genius and a whiny
brat. As with the concert video I described and the Hollywood biopic I
discussed, these oral history books on the Germs and the LA punk scene
are not just sources or data; they are objects that are not ofthe Germs, like
the music itself or the lyrics, but belong to the idea ofthe Germs, the punk
fan's scene of fabulation and figuration, which stand in, for, and beside the
event ofthe Germs. My favorite story in one of these books was one I cited
in my book Cruising Utopia.^" I cannot resist retelling the story of Tomata
du Plenty's take on Darby:
Darby was fascinating in a parking lot. I think that's where he was really a
star. Watching his behavior in a parking lot, that's what made Darby Crash,
that's what made him a legend, certainly not his onstage performances! Oh,
they were so boring! I couldn't sit through a Germs set, please. Torture! But
I could certainly sit on the curb with a 40-ounce and listen to him for hours.
He was an interesting, interesting boy."
A lot of people had a lot of things to say about Crash; he was that kind
of figure. Tomata's line should be read within the context of a statement from another genius gay front man on the scene. Its bitchiness still
reserves the title of genius and outright fabulousness for Crash but not
within the parameters we usually view performers. Tomata suggests that
Darby's genius happened on the level of everyday life and never lived
up to the spectacle of performing. Other voices in the two scene biographies I have mentioned make the opposite case, that Darby was a genius
and visionary performer. The accuracy of either interpretation is beside
the point. Instead we can see how these competing voices of affiliates,
aficionados, and the afflictedall labels that circulate around the sign
fanconverge in the service of assembling the myth of Darby Crash.
But myth can be treacherous, as Jean-Luc Nancy contends in the
Inoperative Community, for myth, and the holistic idea of community it
props up, leads to fascism. He argues that the mythical needs to be interrupted for another sense of being-in-common to reveal itself.'^ In the case
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of Nancy, this other sense of being-with is a literary communism." Literature for Nancy disrupts the totalizing originary force of myth that leads
to the disintegration of community. The literariness of literature, which
Nancy understands as its arbitrary, aleatory, and fragmentary nature,
interrupts the dangerously enclosed conception of the communitarian.
The fan's fabulatory flight plan leads to a destination or landing, in this
case punk, by working with found objects, real or fake, that "belong" to
the event, as provisional vehicles, which allow for a certain arrival at the
idea of punk. And punk itself is often fragmentary, refusing the origin
myths that have been ascribed to it, insisting on a fragmentariness that
feels no responsibility to adhere to any idea of an a priori whole. Punk is
about inelegantly cutting and stitching a sense of the world together; it is
about imagining a commons that is held together by nothing more than a
safety pin. The figurations of the Germs and Crash function as interrupted
myths, an always incomplete and astir fabulation, and finally an entry into
an idea of a punk rock commons or a punk communism.
It seems like a hindrance to attempt to theorize the ontological communism that punk reveals through an inquiry into a figuration that is still
based on one performer. Darby Crash; in such an analysis, the figure of
Crash can therefore be mistaken for a hermetic individual. Crash is not
an individual but, instead, a singularity that sets the scene for other singularities to encounter each other. It is worthwhile to consider the ways
in which the singularity of one figure opens up the possibility of seeing a
turbulent, aleatory, and potentially generative being-in-common. Having
a death wish in the case of Crash was not simply a nihilistic no-future
fantasy. Crash wanted to belong to something larger through his messy
martyrdom; by all indications, his desire to die young was a wish to belong
beyond finitude to a vaster pluralitya conflicted, fragmentary, and thorny
punk rock commons. One of Crash's central texts, the lyrics to "Lexicon
Devil," illuminates an understanding of the being-in-common of the punk
rock commons:
Lexicon Devil
I'm a lexicon devil with a battered brain
Searching for a future the world's my aim
So gimme gimme your hands gimme gimme your minds
Gimme gimme your hands gimme gimme your minds
Gimme gimme this gimme gimme that
I want toy tin soldiers that can push and shove
I want gunboy rovers that will wreck this club
I'll build you up and level your heads
We'll run it my way cold men and politics dead
(Chorus)
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a single footlong braided ponytail hanging frotn the back of the neck with
chains and bandanas wrapped around the ankles of U.S. Army combat
boots. Oki Dog was the newest, coolest place yet to get your Germs burn
and to watch Darby hold court with his minions squatting openmouthed
on the ground while he practiced his "Gimme, gimme this . . . Gimme,
gimme that" mantra. I'd hear him say, "Hi, I'm Darby Crash and that shirt
would look real cool on me. Give it to me, please." It was a litany of gimmes.
Gimme your shirt. Gimme that button. Gimme that bracelet. Gimme a
beer. Gimme two dollars. Gimme a ride to the Whisky. Gimme a ride to the
party. Gimme a ride home. Jesus wept!'^
So Darby's call to "empty your pockets" was part of a continual performance. It happened onstage and it happened at Oki Dog. This is a story
about a bratty kid panhandling throughout his life. But let's go beyond
the literal and think about this "Gimme, gimme" as an open call for having and needing more. It is the relevant complaint that this "here and now
is not enough," that we must demand more and more from the world and
we should not be content to settle. To want more is to desire an enhancement of our multiple senses of the world. Crash is the scamming, grifter
punk who just wants stuff, but he elevates this wanting of stuff to another
level that is not just the desire to consume commodities. Crash's "Gimme,
gimme" is the performance of a voracious desire to have more than this.
It can be understood on the level of an individual, and as a response to
Ronald Reagan's America and to California; however, as Eiona I. B. Ngo
has suggested, the LA punk scene in general can be understood as a semiarticulate response to the "the impact of the wars in Southeast Asia, as
well as the continuing histories of imperialist aggression elsewhere," and
Crash's words can be understood in this way as well.'^ Put in the context
of the particularly appalling shell game of abundance and scarcity that
marks that period, we can perhaps enter Crash's blue circle, his secret
and extremely queer sociality of wanting more. Working through this
enhanced scale, we suddenly have a story about wanting as an emerging
collectivity. Again, let's consider this one ofthis essay's organizing dialectics, that of annihilation and innovation. Crash's desire is a wave of wanting that will demand the shirt off our backs and the cleaning out of our
pockets. But after that particular burn of "not having things," of loss writ
large, the conditions of possibility of really wanting something open up in
visceral and tangible ways. Perhaps what is needed is that those hailed by
the blue and burning circle of the Germs walk out onstage, or even act out
in the checkout line, and declare that the capitalist transactions that stand
in for our actual lived experience of each other might not be enough, that
we need something else, something more, something common.
Many young people who are not traditionally associated with punk's
whitewashed history found a portal to think of their being-in-common
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through the figure of Crash. A few years ago journalist and music theorist Josh Kun wrote an article on the East LA punk scene for Los Angeles
Magazine. He began with a story that features two members of the Chicano
punk band Los Illegals sitting at a caf:
It was the night the Chicanos got blessed by the Pope of L.A. Punk. In
1980, the Atomic Cafe sat on a lonely stretch of Alameda, just south of Olivera Street and Union Station. Run by an army of Japanese American waitresses in short skirts, dagger earrings, and sky-high jet-black hair streaked
with electric blue, it was an after-hours outpost on the edge of pre-Home
Depot downtown with picture windows and squinty office lighting. After
last call, it's where the L.A. punk scene went to get fed.
The Chicanos, Willie Herron and Jesus Velo, remember the night like this.
They were eating wieners and beans after a midnight club crawl and in
walked the punk pope himself. Darby Crashthe chronically cut-andstitched lead screamer for the Germs, the most infamous local crew of musical screwups. Pale, white, and out of control. Crash was the punk scene's
misfit poster boy, as well known for smearing his body with mayonnaise
and burning circles onto his skin as for his noise assaults. He had just come
back from a stay in London with a new Mohawk and a new death wish the
night he walked into the Atomic Cafe, cruised all the tables full of bands and
groupies, and then stopped to fix his blurry stare on the Chicanos.
"He just nodded at us, letting us know he saw us," Velo recalls. "I was like,
"17
'Este pinche vato.' We got the Darby blessing!"'
in which brown queers of color locate their own histories of desire and
desiring-with through Crash's underground iconicity.'* He is a figure that
invites a certain allegiance, a fandom, a sense of pluralitythat being-incommon that so many who are without crave.
Elsewhere I have made the case for a kind of anti-antiutopianism in
the face ofthe foreclosure of politics that various forms of antirelationality
call for." But I take this opportunity to add that while a certain version
of the negative is problematic for various modes of thinking otherwise,
another version ofthe negative, the one I have been signaling through this
paper's plotting of a dialectic of annihilation and innovation, might be a
good and even necessary negation that enables the enactment of a punk
rock commons. Paolo Virno discusses the innovative action at the center of
the joke's negation ofthe "real world." He suggests that through the fallacy
intrinsic to the joke, we arrive at a juncture where we can imagine "new
diagrams for living.''^" Jokes thus function to question and even partially
annihilate a certain sense ofthe real. A lot of people thought Darby and the
Germs were a joke band, and, in this way, they were just thatthey represented a negation akin to Virno's fallacy that renders life in the checkout
line as a bad joke. This is the negation of punk rock. It is the belligerent
insistence on something else. "Gimme, gimme" is simultaneously a rallying
cry and a mantra. Returning to Spicer, it is "The grand concord of what /
Does not stoop to definition." The brown punks and queers discussed
here locate a certain dissident mode of desiring in the dead icon's afterlife
and afterburn. They perform an insistence on wanting more in the face of
scarcity, which does more than simply reject negation, but instead, works
through it to imagine a being-in-common within the negative.
Notes
I would like to thank Joshua Lubin-Levy for his invaluable help in the preparation
of this essay.
1. Jack Spicer, "Improvisation on a Sentence by Poe," in My Vocabulary Did
This to Me: The Collected Poems of Jack Spicer, ed. Peter Gizzi and Kevin Killian
(Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 28), 171.
2. Alice Bag, Violence Girl: East L.A. Rage to Hollywood Stage (A Chicana Punk
Story) (Port Townsend, WA: Feral House, 2011).
3. Louis Althusser, The Philosophy ofthe Encounter: Later Writings, 1978-1987,
ed. Francois Matheron and Oliver Corpet, trans. G. M. Goshgarian (London: Verso,
1997).
4. Tavia Nyong'o, "Punk'd Theory," Social Text 23 (2005): 19-34.
5. Alain Badiou, Being and Event, trans. Oliver Feldham (London: Continuum
Books, 2005).
6. See Jean-Luc Nancy, Being Singular Plural, trans. Robert Richardson and
Anne E. O'Bryne (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000).
7. The Germs, "The Other Newest One," (GI), Slash Records, 1979, LP. Song
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lyrics transcribed from (MIA): The Complete Anthology, Slash Records, 1993, CD.
Song lyrics reprinted in Brendan Mullen, Don Bolles, and Adam Parfrey, Lexicon
Devil: The Fast Times and Short Life of Darby Crash and the Germs (Port Townsend,
WA: Feral House, 2002), 281.
8. The Germs, Media Blitz: The Germs Story, Cleopatra Records, 2004, DVD.
9. Marc Spitz and Brendan Mullen, We Got the Neutron Bomb: The Untold
Story of L.A. Punk (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2001); Mullen, Bolles, and Parfrey, Lexicon Devil.
10. Jos Esteban Muoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity
(New York: New York University Press, 2009), 112.
11. Mullen, Bolles, and Parfrey, Lexicon Devil, 47.
12. Jean-Luc Nancy, The Inoperative Community, ed. Peter Connor, trans.
Peter Connor et al. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), 43-70.
13. Ibid., 70-82.
14. The Germs, "Lexicon Devil," (GI). Song lyrics transcribed from (MIA):
The Complete Anthology. Song lyrics reprinted in Mullen, Bolles, and Parfrey, Lexicon
Devil, 279.
15. Spitz and Mullen, We Got the Neutron Bomb, 209-10.
16. See Fiona I. B. Ngo's important work on the LA punk scene's formation
as affected by shadow of war and imperialist logics. Fiona I. B. Ngo, "Punk in the
Shadow of War," Women and Performance: A Journal of Feminist Theory 22 (2012):
205.
17. Josh Kun, "Vex Populi," Los Angeles Magazine, March 2003, 62.
18. Karen Tongson, Relocations: Suburban Queer Imaginaries (New York: New
York University Press, 2011), 191.
19. Muoz, Cruising Utopia, 12.
20. Paolo Virno, Multitude: Between Innovation and Negation, trans. Isabella
Bertoletti, James Cascaito, and Andrea Casson (Los Angeles: Semiotext(e), 2008),
74.
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