By: Mike Watt

I saw the dils many times starting in 1977, driving up to hollywood from my pedro town to see gigs w/d boon and georgie.

By: Lynn Peril

“Love’s another sterile gift, another shit condition.”

By: Chelsey Johnson

In seventh grade, I flung myself into the social machine.

By: Vanessa Berry

If a sugar bag could be a punk accessory, anything could be.

By: David Smay

“She’s shaping my body like a lump of mud!”

By: Marc Weidenbaum

Resolute and dissolute, unrepentant and penitent, erotic and hermetic.

By: Tor Aarestad

“Please send me evenings and weekends.”

By: Deborah Wassertzug

Jerking between extreme closeup and wide-angle shots.

By: Anthony Miller

An exorcism of enmity beyond the bounds of decorum and rationality.

By: Gordon Dahlquist

“Are you lonely all needs catered/you got your brains dehydrated.”

By: Mandy Keifetz

A riveting racket which screams — yo, this shit is fucked up.

By: Adam McGovern

Just one day on which perhaps the arms could be laid down for good.

By: Miranda Mellis

“Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard…”

By: Lucy Sante

It was like all the music we were listening to then compressed into a pill.

By: Stephanie Burt

“I made Wilson up one day when I was feeling all alone.”