Gutter boss. Part 1.
Or... How to turn a dream of becoming a cool hipster badass, into living on the streets of a rainy city, alone and numb, in three easy steps.
That’s the weird cartoon Gen X Kiwis grew up with. Its important to know that for this story.
So there I was, a young man.
I had left home and moved to the big city of Auckland, from my rural New Zealand hometown to find fame and fortune.
I had just turned 17 and was full of hopes and dreams.
I had enrolled in a well-known drama school that was bonkers liberal in its attitude toward students.
I had heard stories of kids smoking weed on the field, an actual cigarette smoking area for kids who smoked, loose moraled girls, wild parties, and all sorts of other fun-sounding mischiefs.
Of course, most of the above was all going on at my rural high school, but I had grown up with all the kids at that school and they knew all my tricks.
At this new school, I would be able to reinvent myself as some kind of Christian Slaterish grunge badass.
My friend was going to help reinvent me and become part of the cool kids clique at this school. Something he had managed to already do.
I was going to be part of a clique called the “Munch Bunch”.
This was done on day one by completely changing my clothes from the ragged grunge uniform I usually wore, to a kind of preppy CK 1-covered munch bunch uniform of baggy jeans and a nice shirt with the top button done up and gel styled hair.
The orders from my friend were simple. “Don’t act weird, no crazy acrobatic shit, no stories, no jokes, don’t sing any songs… just be cool.”
So I rolled up to the school with him and was cool. Nodding to the cool kids. Standing back observing.
This lasted until about lunchtime.
My friend wasn't around… so I somehow said something funny…
This got laughter and looks…and from there evolved into stories, jokes, and songs...
By the time my friend got back and saw me walking down the steps on my hands, to the laughter of the Munch Bunch… it was over. The court jester was in charge now….
He came over and informed me that I should be hanging out under that tree over there with the freaks.
Looking over I saw a bunch of kids looking over at me…
An asian goth chick in all black and also wearing a cloak, a tall weird-looking dude with a ginger Afro, two Rasta-dressed guys playing hacky sack, and some kid in a suit with a briefcase.
They waved me over.
The ginger Afro guy literally chanting “One of us, One of us.”
I went over.
The next day I was back in my ragged orange cardigan with “Im Grunge” painted on the back, plaid shirt, cut of army pants, and red beret, ranting with my people, the freaks.
My purpose in going to this school was to fulfill some kind of dream of being a famous actor and performer through the medium of hard work, showing up, and learning the craft.
Somehow… hanging with these freaks triggered something in me…
Even these freaks were conforming to what society felt they should be like as freaks. There were layers in this thing called cliques or groups… it was all a made-up act… I guess some people never realize this. For me, it was clear now…. my country school never had this… we were just a demented mass.
This was new…
I had figured it out…
I’m not saying that I’m special or smart. It’s obvious how special and smart I am by the series of incredibly bad choices I made. It is what it is.
By hanging with the beatnik freaks, I rapidly came to the conclusion that self-improvement and striving to BE someone that others approved of was just a masturbatory exercise in human social conformity.
Maybe it was just layers of conformity to cliques all the way up to heaven and all the way down to hell?
If I was to really grow and know myself I would have to force it.
This is harder than it seems when you are so programmed to make correct choices.
It was going to take a bit of headbutting life and a certain amount of focused self-destruction.
My guides were Nirvana, Rage Against the Machine, The Doors, and every bit of beat literature stretching back to Byron.
With this rubbish swimming around in my head I set to work on step 1.
I went directly to hang out with the baddest and most insane kid I could to find to blaze weed, drink stolen rum, and embrace a total lack of restraint in all things.
Terry the Munter became my guide.
Stank brutally. 17 going on 50. Bad teeth. Raised by a drug addict, alcoholic single mother. Personally a drug addict and alcoholic since 13. Wore a faded ripped Metallica shirt and leather pants covered in marks from stubbed-out cigarettes.
I was taking the crash course.
Now I must post the Story of Me and Terry the Munters night out… to give you a taste of mischief we got up to…