Remember that first leather jacket you had? Once you slide your arms into those sleeves, something changes. You feel invincible, you feel strong, you feel protected.
Yeah, nothing changed but outer accouterments. You're still the same mother fucker but you FEEL different.
That's the feeling I get when I lace up my boots but more. When I strap those polished Doc Martens on and tighten those blue laces, I feel alive. Fuck. I feel like ME.
I've had these boots for almost 22 years. They are still solid. They shine up real nice and the soles... well, they are ORIGINAL Dr. M's... soles like that don't wear.
But, I gotta look deeper into this. These boots, man they take me back to a simpler place. A place where we fought on-on-one or in groups. On occasion we used weapons (NEVER used guns) but our real weapons were our boots.
We were boys playing at being men. But we understood some fuckin' honor. You win some, some you don't. There is ALWAYS another fight to get in for some 'noble' reason or another. Ya take your punches, show off your bruises and respect your 'enemy'.
When we walked, we walked proud and together. We all had the same fuckin' boots. We all had the same fuckin' braces. We all had the same idea that we were something, and we definitely were something. Misunderstood, the media called us racists. Racist? Fuck you! Not us, man. Those other motherfuckers had a more glamorous perspective for the media. They had bald heads too. They had organization too. They hurt the 'undesirables'.
Us? We fought for equality.
It was the late 80's so we didn't experience the working class unity that the skinhead culture was based upon. We came in on the tail end and our purpose wasn't about working class solidarity. Our purpose (and we needed purpose) was to even the fuckin' odds. Our purpose was to keep our name honorable (we couldn't accomplish this one unfortunately).
We were S.H.A.R.P. and those 'nazi' racist motherfuckers were our target. If you fucked with someone based on race, any race, you ended up with boots stomping on you.
We didn't always win. As passionate as we were for our 'cause' those skins that were white-power and 'neo-nazi' kept us as their target as well.
Yin and fucking Yang.
Anyway, this need for identity is compelling.
I wanna feel that invincibility again. I wanna feel that purity of good intentions again. I need to grab on to that identity RIGHT NOW.
My strength may be in my boots for a few months. I'm okay with that because it is something that has identified me as me almost as long as drug use has identified me.
Time to lace those bastards up and strut like a soldier again. Yeah, I hear ya... 'lookit ol' head playing soldier'. Nah. this ain't playing. I need to get that swagger back. I'm going to need it for this fuckin' upcoming battle on the horizon.
This battle with the drugs will need some serious soldier work.
I'll play 'old soldier' for a while just to get through
Yeah, nothing changed but outer accouterments. You're still the same mother fucker but you FEEL different.
That's the feeling I get when I lace up my boots but more. When I strap those polished Doc Martens on and tighten those blue laces, I feel alive. Fuck. I feel like ME.
I've had these boots for almost 22 years. They are still solid. They shine up real nice and the soles... well, they are ORIGINAL Dr. M's... soles like that don't wear.
But, I gotta look deeper into this. These boots, man they take me back to a simpler place. A place where we fought on-on-one or in groups. On occasion we used weapons (NEVER used guns) but our real weapons were our boots.
We were boys playing at being men. But we understood some fuckin' honor. You win some, some you don't. There is ALWAYS another fight to get in for some 'noble' reason or another. Ya take your punches, show off your bruises and respect your 'enemy'.
When we walked, we walked proud and together. We all had the same fuckin' boots. We all had the same fuckin' braces. We all had the same idea that we were something, and we definitely were something. Misunderstood, the media called us racists. Racist? Fuck you! Not us, man. Those other motherfuckers had a more glamorous perspective for the media. They had bald heads too. They had organization too. They hurt the 'undesirables'.
Us? We fought for equality.
It was the late 80's so we didn't experience the working class unity that the skinhead culture was based upon. We came in on the tail end and our purpose wasn't about working class solidarity. Our purpose (and we needed purpose) was to even the fuckin' odds. Our purpose was to keep our name honorable (we couldn't accomplish this one unfortunately).
We were S.H.A.R.P. and those 'nazi' racist motherfuckers were our target. If you fucked with someone based on race, any race, you ended up with boots stomping on you.
We didn't always win. As passionate as we were for our 'cause' those skins that were white-power and 'neo-nazi' kept us as their target as well.
Yin and fucking Yang.
Anyway, this need for identity is compelling.
I wanna feel that invincibility again. I wanna feel that purity of good intentions again. I need to grab on to that identity RIGHT NOW.
My strength may be in my boots for a few months. I'm okay with that because it is something that has identified me as me almost as long as drug use has identified me.
Time to lace those bastards up and strut like a soldier again. Yeah, I hear ya... 'lookit ol' head playing soldier'. Nah. this ain't playing. I need to get that swagger back. I'm going to need it for this fuckin' upcoming battle on the horizon.
This battle with the drugs will need some serious soldier work.
I'll play 'old soldier' for a while just to get through
