From: nobody@shell.portal.com
Date: Sat, 5 Feb 94 15:05:47 PST
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: CypherPUNKS. Not!
Message-ID: <199402052302.PAA13278@jobe.shell.portal.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain


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Disclaimer: In this essay, I explore the "punk" aspect of "Cypherpunk".
I wish to provoke, but not disrespect. I am trying to learn and stir things
up, and fend off a certain boredom and inertia that seems to set in when
new ideas seem to be scarce, or worse, shunned. I am a fool throwing
out ideas. You can learn a lot from a fool.

Dedicated to Nikola Tesla and Buckminster Fuller.

You ain't punks. Light rock and Muzak for you. Wouldn't want to upset an
RFC standard. Oh no no, that would be FROWNED upon! We might loose our
Netcom accounts. How can we download Wired and Mondo articles then? Are you
crazy? Detweiler and Sternlight might narc on us, and get us in fearful
trouble. We don't want trouble we just want to fit in and cruise for babes
with our e-money and bOING bOING ties. Please send more e-postage; your
remailer account's gone dry.

You got a problem; the problem is YOU. -Sid Vicious/Sex Pistols

When will all remailers forge mail headers so no one knows which site's
sendmail logs to subpoena or hack into? Forge Message-ID's too. Forge
everything. You can do it with postal mail, legally. When will every
account be a remailer? The internet SUCKS. What's the flag for PGP to
output its "random data block" format? Get off the internet. Message up, to
satellite, from remailer, message down to the world. No one knows who's
decrypting. And besides, "What encrypted message?" God doesn't give out His
sendmail logs. Wires, you can't see them. You can't trust them. If you rely
on technology for your security, stop using wires. And once your remailers
ARE more secure, old Uncle Sam's comin' t' pull the plug, 'cause they know
where to find that CPU. I'm comin' too. Sounds like fun. I wonder what sort
of sexy pass phrase you're using. What's your address? I want to send you
$1. Oh, here's the address in the Thomas Register. You're out a $1.

 * WWW - World Wide Wiretap *
Get Off the Internet and Write Us a Real Encryptor.
Get Off the Internet and Write Us a Real Encryptor.
Oh glee, the net loonies are sending megajoules not megabytes.
Real addresses not e-addresses. Can I still hit 'd' for "diffuse"?
I can't see you; I can't touch you.
I want privacy.
I want real friends.
I want off the internet.
Get Off the Internet and Write Us a Real Encryptor.

 -=Xenon=-

Dead Kennedys / Bedtime for Democracy and other works:

@SONG: Anarchy for Sale

Step right up folks

Anarchy for sale!
T-shirts only 10 dollars
Badges only 3.50
I nicked the design, never asked the band
I never listen to them either

Buy buy buy from Circle A
Like hula hoops, it's a disposable craze
Another fast-food fad to throw away

CHORUS
Get your anarchy for sale
Anarchy for sale
Anarchy for sale

Sheep unite!
Get your cuddly boots and studs
Be sure to rebel in proper style
Rebel along the paths we pick
Out of fear of peer pressure we create

Hey you!-
Get those flyers off my wall
No commie peace shit in my boutique
No one here cares what that all means

CHORUS

Our town sucks
Our scene rules
To belong you must buy into it
So we sold you metal spike bracelets....

C'mon let's see a good fight

CHORUS

@SONG: Chickenshit Conformist

Punk's not dead
It just deserves to die
When it becomes another stale cartoon
A close-minded, self-centered social club
Ideas don't matter, it's who you know

If the music's gotten boring
It's because of the people
Who want everyone to sound the same

Who drive bright people out
Of our so-called scene
'Til all that's left
Is just a meaningless fad

Hardcore formulas are dogshit
Change and caring are what's real
Is this a state of mind
Or just another label

The joy and hope of an alternative
Have become its own cliche
A hairstyle's not a lifestyle
Imagine Sid Vicious at 35

Who needs a scene
Scared to love and to feel
Judging everythng
By loud fast rules appeal

Who played last night?
"I don't know, I forgot.
But diving off the stage
Was a lot of fun."

CHORUS
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
Make the same old mistakes
Again and again,
Chickenshit conformist
Like your parents

What's ripped us apart even more than drugs
Are the thieves and the goddamn liars
Flipping people off when they share their stuff
When someone falls are there any friends?

Harder core than thou for a year or two
Then it's time to get a real job
Others stay home, it's no fun to go out
When the gigs are wrecked by gangs and thugs

When the thugs form bands, look who gets record deals
>From New York metal labels looking to scam
Who sign the most racist queerbashing bands they can find
To make a buck revving kids up for war

Walk tall, act small
Only as tough as gang approval
Unity is bullshit
When it's under someone's fat boot

Where's the common cause
Too many factions
Safely sulk in their shells
Agree with us on everything
Or we won't help with anythng
That kind of attitude
JUst makes a split grow wider

Guess who's laughing while the world explodes
When we're all crybabies
Who fight best among ouselves

CHORUS

That farty old rock and roll attitude's back
"It's competition, man, we wanna break big."
Who needs friends when the money's good
That's right, the '70s are back.

Cock-rock metal's like a bad laxative
It just don't move me, ya know?
The music's OK when there's more ideas than solos
Do we rally need the attitude too?

Shedding thin skin too quickly
As a fan it disappoints me
Same old stupid sexist lyrics
Or is Satan all you can think of?

Crossover is just another word
For lack of ideas
Maybe what we need
Are more trolls under the bridge
Wil the metalheads finally learn something-
Or will the punks throw away their education?

No one's ever the best
Once they believe their own press
"Maturing" don't mean rehashing
Mistakes of the past

CHORUS

The more things change
The more they stay the same
We can't grow
When we won't criticize ourselves
The '60s weren't all failure
It's the '70s that stunk
As the clock ticks we dig the same hole

Music scenes ain't real life
They won't get rid of the bomb
Won't eliminate rape
Or bring down the banks
Any kind of real change
Takes more time and work
Than changing channels on a TV set

CHORUS

@SONG: Fleshdunce

We're world industry's thoughtlords
The entertainment wing
We keep you all in line

By fixing your free will
Surround you with pop fantasies
Just slightly out of reach
To soften all the blows
Of your forced daily routine

We strip-mine your underground culture
Take the bite out and rinse it clean
Give ourselves credit for creating it
Then sell it back to you
At twice the price

Our pool of talent vampires
Has blown into your town
To dazzle, sign and milk you
All strictly on our own terms

You think you've got a lot to say
We'll change that real soon
You're not a person anymore
We've made you a cartoon

By the time we're through remolding you
You won't even recognize your face
There's no end to the eager beavers
Drawn the moths to our Babylon's mirage

Conveyor belt of fleshdunce
They all want to do the fleshdunce
Conveyor belt of fleshdunce
Who all want to do the fleshdance

@SONG: Where Do Ya Draw the Line

Seems like the more I think I know
The more I find I don't
Every answer opens up so many questions

anarchy sounds good to me
Then someone asks, "Who'd fix the sewers?"
"Would the rednecks just play king
Of the neighborhood?"

How many liberators
Really want to be dictators
Every theory has its holes
When real life steps in

So how do we feed
And make room for
All the people crowded on our earth
And transfer all that wealth
>From the rich to those who need it

CHORUS
Where do ya draw the line
Where do ya draw the line
I'm not telling you
I'm asking you

Ever notice hard line radicals
Can go on start trips too
Where no one's pure and right
Except themselves

"I'm cleansed of the system."
('Cept when my amp needs electric power)
Or-"The Party Line says no.
Feminists can't wear fishnets."

You wanna help stop war?
Well, we reject your application
You crack too many jokes
And you eat meat

What better way to turn people off
Than to twist ideas for change
Into one more church
That forgets we're all human beings
Where do ya draw the line?

In Toronto someone blew up
A cruise missile warhead plant
10 slightly hurt, 4 million dollars damage

Why not destroy private property
When it's used against you and me
Is that violence
Or self-defence
You tell me

CHORUS

Turn on
Tune in
Cop out

@SONG: PULL MY STRINGS

I'm tired of self-respect
I can't afford a car
I wanna be a prefab superstar

I wanna be a tool
Don't need no soul
Wanna make big money
Playing rock and roll

I'll make my music boring
I'll play my music slow
I ain't no artist I'm a businessman
No ideas of my own

I won't offend
Or rock the boat
Just sex and drugs
And rock and roll

Drool, drool, drool, drool, drool (etc.)
My payola!
Drool, drool, drool, drool, drool (etc.)
My payola!

You'll pay ten bucks to see me
On a fifteen foot high stage
Fatass bouncers kick the shit
Out of kids who try to dance

If my friends say
I''ve lost my guts
I'll laugh and say
That's rock and roll

But there's just one problem...

Is my cock big enough
Is my brain small enough
For you to make me a star
Give me a toot,
I'll sell you my soul
Pull my strings and I'll go far

And when I'm rich
And meet Bob Hope
We'll shoot some golf
And shoot some dope

Is my cock big enough
Is my brain small enough
For you to make me a star
Give me a toot,
I'll sell you my soul
Pull my strings and I'll go far

@SONG: SHORT SONGS

I love short songs.

@SONG: Stealing People's Mail
  Words and Music by Biafra

We ain't going to the party
We ain't going to the game
We ain't going to the disco
Ain't gonna cruise down main
We're stealing people's mail
      stealing people's mail
      stealing people's mail
On a friday night
Drivin' in the mountains
Winding round and round
Rummage thru your mailboxes
Take your mail back to town
And we got license plates, wedding gifts, tax returns
Checks to politicians from real estate firms,
Money, bills and cancelled checks,
Pretty funny pictures of your kids
We're stealing peopl's mail
On a Friday night
We're stealing people's mail
By the pale moonlight
We got grocery sackful after grocery sackful
Grocery sackful after grocery sackful
Grocery sackful after grocery sackful
Of the private lives of you
Ha Ha
People say we're crazy
We're sick and all alone
But when we read your letters
We're rolling on the floor
We got more license plates, wedding gifts, tax returns
Checks to politicians from real estate firms,
Money, bills and cancelled checks
We cut relationships with your friends
We're gonna steal your mail
By the pale moonlight
We better not get caught
We'll be drugged and shocked
'Til we come out born-again christians....

@SONG: NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF

Punk ain't no religious cult
Punk means thinking for yourself
You ain't hardcore cos you spike your hair
When a jock still lives inside your head

Nazi punks
Nazi punks
Nazi punks - Fuck Off!

Nazi punks
Nazi punks
Nazi punks - Fuck Off!

If you've come to fight, get outa here
You ain't no better than the bouncers
We ain't trying to be police
When you ape the cops it ain't anarchy

Nazi punks
Nazi punks
Nazi punks - Fuck Off!

Nazi punks
Nazi punks
Nazi punks - Fuck Off!

Ten guys jump one, what a man
You fight each other, the police state wins
Stab your backs when you trash our halls
Trash a bank if you've got real balls

You still think swastikas look cool
The real nazis run your schools
They're coaches, businessmen and cops
In a real fourth reich you'll be the first to go

Nazi punks
Nazi punks
Nazi punks - Fuck Off!

Nazi punks
Nazi punks
Nazi punks - Fuck Off!

You'll be the first to go
You'll be the first to go
You'll be the first to go
Unless you think...

@SONG: TERMINAL PREPPIE

         I go to college
         That makes me so cool
         I live in a dorm
         And show off by the pool
         I join the right clubs
         Just to make an impression
         I block out thinking
         It won't get me ahead

         My ambition in life
         Is to look good on paper
         All I want is a slot
         In some big corporation

         John Belushi's my hero
         I Lampoon and ape him
         My news of the world
         Comes from Sports Illustrated

         I'm proud of my trophies
         Like my empty beer cans
         Stacked in rows up the wall
         To impress all my friends

         No, I'm not here to learn
         I just want to get drunk
         And major in business
         And be taught how to fuck

         Win!  Win!
         I always play to win
         Wanna fit in like a cog
         In the faceless machine

         (chorus)
         I'm a terminal terminal terminal preppie
         Terminal terminal terminal preppie
         Terminal terminal terminal terminal
         Terminal terminal terminal terminal

         I want a wife with tits
         Who just smiles all the time
         In my centerfold world
         Filled with Springsteen and wine

         Some day I'll have power
         Some day I'll have boats
         A tract in some suburb
         With Thanksgivings to host

         (chorus)
         I'm a terminal terminal terminal preppie
         Terminal terminal terminal preppie
         Terminal terminal terminal preppie

@SONG: I AM THE OWL

         I am your plumber
         No I never went away
         I still bug your bedrooms
         And pick up everything you say
         It can be a boring job
         To monitor all day your excess talk

         I hear when you're drinking
         And cheating on your lonely wife
         I play tape recordings
         Of you to my friends at night

         We've got our girl in bed with you
         You're on candid camera
         We just un-elected you

         (chorus)
         I am the owl
         I seek out the fowl
         Wipe 'em away
         Keep America free
         For clean livin' folks like me

         If you demonstrate
         Angainst somebody we like
         I'll slip on a wig
         And see if I can start a riot
         Transform you to an angry mob
         All your leaders go to jail for my job


         But we aren't the russians
         Political trials are taboo
         We've got our secret
         Ways of getting rid of you
         Fill you full of LSD
         Turn you loose on a freeway

         (chorus)

         Send you spinning
         Send you spinning
         Send you spinning all over the freeway
         Spinning on the crowded freeway
         Spinning on the freeway
         Spinning on the freeway
         Spin...
         Spin...
         Spin - Lookout

         The Press, they never even cared
         Why a youth leader walked into a speeding car
         In ten years we'll leek the truth
         By then it's only so much paper

         Watergate hurt
         But nothing really ever changed
         A teeny bit quieter
         But we still play our little games
         We still play our little games
         We still play our little games
         We still play our little games
         We still play a lot of games
         I am the owl

         (chorus)

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