Haunted by Punk Rock Ghosts

Whilst ripping CD's onto my laptop, I came across a cultural touchstone from my mispent youth, Plastic Surgery Disasters, by hardcore/punk rock magnates, the Dead Kennedys. After listening absently to the album while reading about property law, it occurred to me that the work was a harsh indictment of the new ambitions born of the last few weeks of my life. I'll get to that in a minute, but first, a little background:

So, at the end of August, I, as well as several hundred of my law school cohorts, suffered, smiled, and schmoozed our way through Early Interview Week (hereafter "EIW"--pronounced "ewwwwww!). During EIW, we sign up for short meetings with recruiters from big-time NYC law firms who threaten to overpay us for 10-12 weeks next summer with the hopes of overpaying and overworking us after we graduate. (For a more in-depth look at EIW, check out this post by classmate and fellow blogger, Man D.).

Here are three key steps of my EIW strategy that are pertinent to the whole indictment thing (I am currently completing Step 1):
1) Resume--Doing my best to overrepresent myself on my paper through careful, uh... interpretation of my legal and scholastic past. Using said resume and an according firm persona to secure a job.
2) Job--(over)work as a highly trained and highly paid legal cog in a large NYC firm which helps exponentially larger corporations exercise their fiduciary responsibilities by representing them in deals and conflicts with the governmental institutions and other large corporations. (Sentence intentionally constructed to imply what it implies).
3) Move--use my likeability (believe it or not) and other social skills to schmooze my way up through the ranks and then transfer to an office in San Francisco and moved to Sausalito, a picturesque, expensive little town in Marin County, north of S.F. proper. Once there, I will use my salary to purchase property, where I will stay and ignore the rest of the world and its depressing problems.

Ironically, these three steps are indicted in three different punk ragers from Plastic Surgery Disasters. What's worse, the order in which the tracks appear on the album corresponds to the chronological order of the three steps. Observe:

From track# 3, Terminal Preppie:

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

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

From track #5, Well Paid Scientist:

"Company cocktails, gotta go
Say the right thing
Don't fidget, jockey for position
Be polite
In the pyramid you hate
Sip that scotch
Get that raise
This ain't no party at all

Something is wrong here
You won't find in on a shelf
You're well paid
You're well trained
You're tied to a rack"

From track #14, Moon Over Marin:

"The crowded future stings my eyes
I still find time to exercise
In uniform with two white stripes

Unlock my section of the sand
It's fenced off to the water's edge
I clamp a gasmask on my head

On my beach at night
Bathe in my moonlight

Another tanker's hit the rocks
Abandoned to spill out its guts
The sand is laced with sticky glops

O' Shimmering moonlight sheen upon
The waves and water clogged with oil
White gasses steam up from the soil

I squash dead fish between my toes
Try not to step on any bones
I turn around and I go home

I slip back through my basement door
Switch off all that I own below
Dive in my scalding wooden tub

My own beach at night
Electric Moonlight

There will always be a moon
Over Marin"

Ouch for me? Sure, it's been ten years since I bought Plastic Surgery (maybe someone else bought this particular copy, regardless, I listened to it), but the tale of the tape mirrors my own ambitions too closely for my comfort. Self-fulfilling prophecy or coincidence?

Regardless, it's actually a fantastic album.