I wrote this a few days ago about the murder in my neighborhood and I sent it to some friends, for closure and to clear up rumors...it is my opinion, that is all , and not a overall view of what happened
It is really a strange feeling to have hung out with someone who was murdered, and those who did the murder, a few hours prior to it happening. It is strange I tell you, especially when it was just another Sunday, and I was just running my dogs at the place we go almost daily. A few hours later I was working, when the people I was around were going through, what really was - a life or death struggle - and I guy I know was beaten, beaten to a point of death.
It is strange, but maybe not so unexpected, as we live in a violent society, and violence is a norm all throughout America. This society is fucked up - where alienation runs rapid and people feel the need to find some scene of power in their lives. People can try to lose themselves through methods; like drugs, violence, or pride. It sucks when this is manifests itself in such vicious ways though. It really sucks, and it is really sad…because someone I knew died a few days ago for nothing….for nothing except
I work Sunday nights so I make sure to run my dogs a lot before I go. I live in West Philly, where there are a number of parks, but my favorite place to go is along the Schuylkill River, near an old oil refinery. There is plenty of places for Molly & Pepper (my two dogs) to run, and an old pier that it a wonderful place to hangout. My friend Danny and I were going there daily before he left for Germany - we would sit on the pier, stare over the river and talk about philosophy, our lives, places we have been, what we dream about, and about what really makes a good metal band. It is a excellent place to do some thinking, or at least enjoy one of the few semi-autonomous urban spaces in West Philly. On the way to the pier, you have to pass a firepit, a fire pit that many people (including myself) use as a social gathering space at night. During the day it is almost always empty, except for last Sunday.
There were a few people and their dogs there, Molly & Pepper went to check it out and I followed, and it turns out that I knew some of them. Montana Bill was there, completely trashed, which is not unexpected, even at 2pm on a Sunday. Montana Bill (named for the tattoo of the state of Montana on his cheek, isn’t that bad of a kid, just a bit lost. Lost in a bottle is his main method of dealing with life, which makes him a pain-in-the-ass to deal with. He used to come to my old house, as we would often hold shows and have parties. He would be that pain-in-the-ass drunk kid who I, my wife Widler, or our neighbor RuthBeth had to deal with. But we were always decent with him, and in his drunken ways Montana Bill respected that. Now every time I see him, he showers me with friendliness and apologies for his prior drunken fuck-ups. Still he is drunk nearly every time I see him, so it makes friendliness and apologies a pain-in-the-ass to deal with, but he tries I guess, and who knows what ever happen to him to lead him to the state that he is in. He has told me of his parents and the abuse that he has gone through. He the boy has been fucked in this lifetime and he doesn’t seem to have the strength to overcome it. So he drinks. That is what he was doing when I saw him at the fire pit.
Montana wasn’t alone, as there were four others. One guy was already passed out, and there was this couple who were new to town, along with a guy named Tim that I knew a log time ago. Tim I know from Stalig days, Stalig 13 was a ware house that my friends started that held much of Philly’s punk shows during the mid-late 90’s. Not only was it a show space, but also a bunch of punx lived there including myself - where in the summer of 98, me and Ken shared an upstairs room (when bands played downstairs 3 to 4 nights a week). It became one of the key punk/crusty spaces in West Philly, a place where everyone would hangout and squatters nearby could get basic necessities like water. A lot of people hung out there, and where it was fun and interesting - it was also in an era where a lot of crusties got into dope, and got caught up in a “Macho guy” behavior where so many felt the need to prove just how tuff and crusty their were. This was the beginning of the “scumfuck” era and to tell you the truth, I hated it then.
Tim I knew briefly, as at one point the scene was split between - those who do dope and those who didn’t. I was firmly of the “non-junky camp” and made a conscious decision that I didn’t was to even associate with them. Now anyone that has been around many junkies can tell you the multiple reasons not to be around junkies - things being stolen, pointless conversations etc. - I had another reason. That I hated dope and hated what it did to people and I didn’t what it in my scene, and in my world, so I drew a line. That is when I lost contact with Tim and I haven’t seen him in years until about a month ago. He was with an old friend of mine named Crystal, and he seemed friendly enough, and I have reached a point in my life when I realize that people can fall into heavy drugs because of other issues in their life that they want to escape, so I did not keep past prejudices. Tim seemed to be doing well and off dope, and we had a friendly acquaintance. Tim was heated that day I saw him at the fire pit and he talked about how he wanted revenge, as a few days before our mutual friend Crystal had gotten in a fight, and was beaten pretty badly. Tim, who was playing with a handgun when I was there, said he was going to find the guy who attacked her and get revenge. Everyone around the fire pit seemed to agree with him on what that guy deserved.
The couple who were there were new to town, and were seriously trying to prove exactly how crusty and tuff they were. They told stories about the “streets of San Francisco” and how they got “kicked out of C-squat, because of fighting”. They told me, in the brief time, I was there about how much fighting they did. They bragged about it, about being so tuff they got kicked out of C-squat. They talked about the facial tattoos they want to get and about different types of booze. All of this did impress me, as I was quite impressed about how annoying they were and how I really just wanted to keep walking in the woods with my dogs.
So I left, went on with my day. The dogs and I went to the beach near Bartram’s Gardens and then I went to work. Everyone else I assume kept drinking. Eventually they ended up at “Paradise City” a large squatted apartment building. Sometime late that night a fight broke out, and allegedly that couple attacked Tim. They attacked him pretty badly, because he never got back up. They killed him, over what I am unsure of, all I know is that they were friendly drinking buddies early that days. Drinking buddies whose conversation was focused on violence. Violence was a big part of their identity, they all talked and bragged about it, to me - who is just some guy, who some off them kinda knew, who was walking his dogs by the river near his house. Now, all I keep thinking of is how sad it all is, and how I just don’t want to be around this shit at all.
When I was in Denmark I was trying to explain the “scumfuck” identity to my friend there as he had heard about this American “scumfuck” scene. I told him, what it was about, and where it came from. How it was once part of the punk/crusty scene, but now is something different, but still related. How paths cross and the conflicts between the two different sub-cultures. How I did security at a punk fest and basically that meant babysitting a group of self-proclaimed scumfucks, who showed up not to see any of the bands but to do what they tend to do, drink and then intimidate and fight. They were fucking arseholes, and that is what they wanted to be. They would brag about what arseholes they were. They were scumfucks and the said they “didn’t care” which was so full of shit. Because they did care, otherwise they wouldn’t have rode trains 100’s of miles in order to sit outside this one place for four days while concerts were going on. They came to be arseholes, to try to show dominance over the punks at the show. They wanted to act like a gang, they wanted some sort of attention, they wanted to feel important - like they were the “big dogs” of the show - and not follow simple respectful behavior to everyone else.
This one group is not alone, a whole culture has formed - the “Scumfucks”. I keep thinking of the violence, as that is what all this comes down to. What happen to all these people where constant violence is a way of life? Who would want this? And why? Really, what it comes down too is that I don’t want to live in that world at all. I don’t want to be associated with it. I find it sick, and sad. Really sad. I don’t want to be in place or surround myself with people who feel that fighting is a normal activity. Where people are beaten into a hospital, or, as what just happened, are killed. I can’t stand this “scumfuck” culture that this couple wanted so badly to be part of.
There was a murder, a few blocks from my house. Philadelphia has one of the highest murder rates in the country, so the cops have made this case a top priority. My friends squats have been raided, people I know have been pulled off trains and my roommate, my wife, and & were stopped by the police on the street, when we were walking to the coffeehouse that Wilder works out. America is a violent culture, based on exploitation and alienation. People react in fucked up ways because of it. This happen a week ago - and I saw who was involved in this killing when I was doing a daily act in my life, walking my dogs. This is not the world I want to live in. Whoever reads this, these are my thoughts on what happened last Sunday. It is all fuckin’ sad.
Post edited by: Mike Str8, at: 2007/07/10 08:10
