To Disappear

*This was written sometime before Christmas, before I started working full time again, when I clearly had too much time on my hands and in my head. However, though I feel more stable in my life, the sentiment is still with me. I am terrified; of the big things and the small things, of my freedoms and choices, and of the 1984-ish aspect of the way facts and history are being handled during these times here in the US. Reality and subjectivity are two of my favorite ideas to debate philosophically,  but the goings on here are most certainly playing a joke on me, like the world has turned into one big, unfunny satire.

 

It is easy to disappear.

Three weeks ago, I was livid, hurt, scared and decidedly ready to get involved. Today I sit, trying to not let something small but maybe big deter my goals, deter my ability to function as a human. A week after the election, it was all so much, so overwhelming, I quit. I deleted social media off my phone and quit reading the stories and quit giving all of my mind to the overwhelming depression.

A simple, “I’m fine.” It keeps even the closest person from asking more, asking those questions, keeping you from facing the truth: Despair. Unaccountable sadness, despair, anxiety and fear.

Death. Failure. Loneliness. Disease. Disaster. Pain. Suffering. Add in family and friends and the pain the death the disappointment the overall sense of failure to know anything and help anyone because…

It is easy to disappear.

I will tell you: A bottle of vodka. A twelve pack of high gravity beer. An empty house. No phone calls.

It is fighting to stay present for a child, for the only child, the only person with unconditional love. This is my reason. He has my eyes. And he’s so intelligent and funny and he makes me want to be okay.

I want to not want to disappear.

Today. On the computer the news headlines terrify me. The posts terrify me. The tweets are disheartening. The hate is so much more palpable and lasting than the goodness. Think back. Try real hard. Those negative comments, those mean people, they’ve stuck in the bank of memories and they’ve taken root, grown black branches, spread the significance of what a negative action is capable of.

Stir with a ceaseless self loathing and

It sticks with you.

And my head is filled it’s always going with the this and the that and the what did I forget what did that comment mean this person probably didn’t like me anyway how can a nice guy care and definitely how can one care after getting to know me and the insecurities and selfish behavior and the me and me me me.

Fuck.

How will my child ever be okay?

I’m Just Not There Yet

This is something I wrote about a month ago. It’s a bit of random thought pieced together, but it all holds true. Anyway, hopefully I will be returning to blogging/writing more now that I’m working into my new job. I’ve been subbing as a paraprofessional for the last month, and I have an interview to be full time, and in doing this work, I’ve reaffirmed the vast changes made in my life. I am EXACTLY where I need to be to enact the even bigger changes that involve going back to school and the giant terrifyingly expensive thing that is going to be. It’s an exciting time. I just need to focus and not let the cultural climate affect me negatively, and work at expressing why it does get me down when I read NPR or PBS, why The Daily Show makes me laugh at the same time it makes me cry, and why I DON’T have to feel bad about these feelings. I DO NOT agree that I need to stay silent for the next four years and be okay with what’s going on. And I don’t need to justify my feelings. Anyway.

 

It always astounds me how quickly time goes despite the fact that I’m 36 and should probably be aware, yet sometimes it feels like I just graduated high school. I know, there are a million sayings about how quickly time passes, I should be used to it. Clearly, humans do not always react the way it is predicted we will act. I think Americans and Trump have illustrated this point. And time will never cease to weird me out, astound me, befuddle me and all around piss me off. Time is a sentence, and the only punctuation at the end is a set of ellipses.

Four and a half months ago I moved out of the safety net of my comfortable life because I needed more out of life, out of work, out of myself. Three months ago, I was excited and nervous. Today, well, things have changed in the time since moving. Time has allowed me to think, to examine, to remember. Time has allowed me to remember that I’m not just blindly trying to make it to the next day, to the next exciting moment, to the next bearable second. Time has caused me to remember depression, and to remember hope, and to remember passion.

After the election, I was reading so many disheartening things and telling myself to get involved, promising myself I would get involved, and, yet, that didn’t happen. Instead, I quit social media, (namely Facebook), and disconnected from the vast reality that didn’t directly involve my child. This was negative in so many ways. Hiding from negative reality never makes it better; the auto pay bills deplete the bank account, the not auto pay bills fall into delinquency, the job does not get secured, the ability and the want to socialize is lost, and all of those little things that get ignored add up until suddenly, at any moment, they might topple the whole tower. And the whole damn thing is just too overwhelming. Which leads to more hiding. Cycle begins again, a much worse version of The Song That Never Ends.

I have some issues that need to be worked out, and it is becoming clearer to me that the need to get them worked out is becoming more pressing as I age. It’s a weird thing, depression. It’s hard to explain without sounding like you have chosen to hide out just because some of the time you are able to function. But I’m going to say this is NOT the life I have actively chosen. Something inside of me has been setting me up for disappointing myself since I was a kid. It was so much easier to shake off then, because there are so many years to make changes, to do better, to fix the things you can fix. And then time comes along and fucks with everything and suddenly you’re a middle aged single mom having the same twenty year long crisis you’ve been having and nothing mentally has changed. Add into that anemia and IBS, and single mom-hood, and exhaustion and depression seem to just become the norm.

Time and reality and history and memory, we’ve been having a battle for years. History, as much as it strives to teach us how to avoid mistakes and continue the good, is a load of horseshit. History is no more than a subjective take on a past we cannot understand. It isn’t made up of facts any more than this blog post is fact based. Some believe the Bible is fact, yet that doesn’t take into account dinosaurs or carbon dating or evolution. History has for years been portraying Columbus as discovering America, glossing over the way America treated and still treat, many Native Americans, and I can say in all my years of school, I never once learned anywhere about Japanese internment camps in the United States. I mean, we have this society that is growing scarier and more Orwellian each day that passes, and yet, has history with McCarthyism and internment camps and Nazi Germany been teaching us anything? Has the last eight years taught us, as a nation, anything? History, the portrayal of reality in the past, it’s all completely subjective. Vast history is the portrayal by one or a few, with their understanding and interpretation, with what they decide is relevant and worth discussing. We as humans believe what we want to believe. From CNN to Fox News to scary Alt right Nazi propaganda, to believing a man with millions and about a million scandals and shady business deals gives two shits about the poor and middle class. And memory? That’s the most unreliable interpretation of reality, of the past, of time that one has. Yet it’s our memories we use to shape our personalities, to shape our realities, our histories, our entire conception of self, (with some biological nature mixed in). And it’s amazing to me that, with something as unreliable as memory and reality, as humans, we make it anywhere at all. Granted, this is my own personal interpretation of these concepts; but language is arbitrary, thus concepts are arbitrary.

I sit and I think about all this stuff at night, think about the impossibility of death and nothingness yet how it is inevitably unavoidable and the idea that something that existed no longer exists as it was, it drives me crazy, causes anxiety, and there are few ways to distract the mind when it gets so bogged down with this bullshit.

I’m trying to be better for myself, but especially for my son. I’m trying to get insurance, because I need help. I need help. And my child needs to know that, with the genetic lineage he is predisposed to, it is okay to ask for help. And I can admit that I need help. Here. But with friends, with family, well, I’m just not there yet.

But I’m working on it.

How To Prepare A Thanksgiving Dinner

“I’m worried about him,” I say. I’m standing at the counter next to the sink peeling potatoes, the lumpy brown skin piling up, covering my blue cutting board.

“I know,” J says, watching me. He stands at the stove holding a Poet, Michigan beer at it’s finest, he always says, and I always call him a beer snob. “I’m worried about him too, Em. But he’s an adult. We can’t make him do anything if he doesn’t want to. I mean, give him a little time to readjust.”

I watch him finish his Poet and line it up beside the silver fridge with the others, a three Poet procession, and proceed to open another.

“Where’s the bag of apples, Em?” He asks as he crosses the floor and starts opening cupboards. “I want to start peeling them for the pie.”

“How are we ever going to finish before everyone gets here?” I drop another naked potato into the sink, begin peeling the next. “What the hell were we thinking, volunteering to host Thanksgiving?”

J crosses the kitchen and puts a pale, thin arm around me, kisses my cheek and the smell of his beer breath is strong.

“I have no clue,” he says with a chuckle. “But it’s going to be fine, Em. For real. And here’s something to be thankful for: At least we don’t have to put up with the chain smoking at my parents house.”

“Or my Mom’s ten cats hacking up hairballs at the kitchen table.”

“Ugh,” J says with a shiver. “She makes crazy cat lady sound normal.” He looks at the turkey again, and, satisfied of the progress, sets his beer on the table. “Apples, apples, apples…” he sings, his voice deep, his song making me wince. My husband can effectively deal with at risk kids all day, five days a week, but he is completely tone deaf. “Voila! Apples!” He pulls the bag from the cabinet and gets himself set up at the table with a knife, the other cutting board and a bowl.

“I mean, we have an extra bedroom,” I say, dropping the last potato in the sink. I turn on the water to rinse them, and I can feel J’s stare boring into the back of my skull.

“Emma, I really think you should drop it. Ollie is twenty-two. And the amount of work, the renovations it would take to make the room ready for him? He doesn’t need a caregiver, Em, he needs his family’s support.”

I find the large pot under the stove and set it in the sink, wincing at how loud it sounds, and ready the pot with the potatoes and water and put them on the back burner of the stove. Think about the bottle of wine for dinner. I can have that wine.

“I know how old he is, J. He’s my brother,” I say as I pull out the chair across from him. We have these awful, green, yellow and orange floral chairs surrounding our brown Salvation Army table we refinished last year, and it’s my favorite place in our house, sitting around our refinished table. “I just keep thinking about him in the hospital. What if he needs help?”

J stops peeling, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m only going to say this one more time. After that, Emma, it’s up to you.” He fixes his blue eyes on my face and I look away, down at the table. “It is not your fault Ollie chose to get into his drunk friend’s car…No, let me finish,” he says, knowing me well enough to know I’m going to cut in. “You didn’t answer your phone, I know. That doesn’t make it your fault. But right now, Ollie is working his ass off to get his life back, to get past the traumatic brain injury and being here won’t help him. In fact, I don’t think you could convince him to give up his apartment or his independence after what he went through to get it back.”

“I know what he went through, J! I was there!”

“That being said,” J closes his eyes again, squeezes the bridge of his nose, “If you could convince him to move in with us, I would never turn him away. You know that.”

“I’m opening the wine now.” I watch him, his thin frame, the way his dark blond hair is always in his face, soft features and a crooked smile he is aiming at me, even though it isn’t real, doesn’t reach his eyes. I love my husband and his social work guidance counselor logic, his confidence and his boyish good looks, but sometimes I hate him, just a little bit, for these same reasons.

“I would normally not recommend drinking to cope, but,” he says as holds up his beer, a sad, wistful look, “that would make me a hypocrite.”

“A tipsy hypocrite.” I stand and open the bottle of wine, a cheap Michigan Riesling.

“Probably a drunk hypocrite by tonight.”

“Probably,” I agree as I open the cupboard and grab a wine glass. I take my first drink of wine since January, lean against the counter savoring the sweet taste.

“Is it wrong,” J says, looking down at the apples, “that I don’t want to give up that room yet? That I don’t want to let go?”

“No, J. No, it’s not wrong. But it’s breaking both our hearts to keep pretending it’s going to be used. Maybe Ollie wouldn’t agree to move in, but–”

His chair scrapes across the tile, tips and rights itself as he stands. “I forgot the whip cream,” he says, not looking at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk.” His voice is too quiet, too cold, as he slips on his Vans and slams the kitchen door. I stare at the place he disappeared from, take my glass of wine into the powder blue room and laugh at the absurd Thanksgiving tradition of dysfunctional family gatherings.

The Wildlife of Victoria’s Past

“It all started after the disastrous fire in the woods,” Victoria says, her white heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She moves around the kitchen, pushing a plate of food just a bit one way, sliding another just a bit the other. I watch her fingers, long and thin and the way her gaudy ring glints in the low lighting.

“The wildlife moved closer to the house,” she continues, “and there was this horrible little woodpecker that just kept peck peck pecking away at the tree that was right by my bedroom window.” She shudders, and I can’t help shaking my head. “About drove me crazy. Anyway,” she says as she picks up her wine glass, “That’s why my parents sold the house. There were just too many pests. We moved up here my freshman year of high school, and your brother was my knight in shining armor. But you already know that story.” Red nails and white wine, she swirls and sips.

Oh yes, I know that story. I was there for that story, just a lowly freshman, watching the princess in distress having a meltdown over NOTHING. No, really, there was nothing happening to her to cause the crying and drama she unleashed as a sob story all over my brother like vomit. ‘Oh I’m so sad, woe is me I’m new and all the boys want to take me out.’ And, like the good dog that he has become, James lapped it up and vomited it right back over top of his now bride to be.

This vapid woman will be my sister in law within the month. And here I am, sentenced to spend the night pretending to have fun at her bachelorette party, my only solace that I was able to cause a terrible grimace when I showed up dressed all wrong in a plaid skirt and black wife beater tank top, my tattoos on full display. As part of the fun, her bridesmaids are to be in all black, while as the bride, she wears white. Take that, Victoria.

Turn my gaze down and realize the bottle of PBR I’ve been drinking has been coastered. At some point in time, while I was sitting here listening Victoria drone on and on, she ninja slid a coaster under my PBR. How did I not notice this?

“So, what caused the fire?” I ask, picking at the label on my bottle.

“What? What fire?” Pale complexion and red lips, her black hair frames her face in a severe bob. The white dress she wears accentuates her long legs and slim physique, and despite the lack of material, she pulls off an almost regal look.

“You know, ‘the disastrous fire in the woods’, with the peck peck pecking woodpecker.” I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow, blow a stray piece of green hair out of my face.

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably some stupid kid or something.”

The fire burned half the forest down a few towns over, killing five people and decimating the wildlife. It was all over the news for weeks.

I pull the flask from my satchel and ignore the look she gives, take a pull of the vodka because it is necessary. My brother James is three years older, and he used to be sane. We’ve never been close or anything, as he’s more sports and competing and I’m more throw a party and play darts while we listen to loud music. But this woman, she just keeps on pulling out the surprises. My conclusion is that James has gone crazy. His noodle is thinking for his brain, which has been disastrous to men throughout history.

“Excuse me,” I say, standing and pulling out a Camel. I stick the cigarette between my lips, head outside and light up before the door closes. My buzz is finally kicking in, and as I watch a fire engine red car make its way down the street, Beethoven’s 5th automatically starts playing in my head. This car is filled with females. These females are friends of Victoria.

I’m not sure there’s enough vodka in this flask to dispel thoughts of a disastrously miserable night. Then, for some reason, I picture Victoria’s head on a woodpecker. There is beer spurting out of my nose when four meticulously beautiful women exit the fire engine vehicle, and within moments their heads have been superimposed over with the wildlife of Victoria’s past.

Far more sane to imagine human headed wildlife than the disastrous fire that led to Victoria’s arrival. Jesus, she is right. That fire did cause the pests to move closer.

Trump Gave Hate A Platform

Yesterday, it was so difficult to focus on anything important. I spent the day outside blasting Bad Religion, Anti-Flag, Cobra Skulls and a whole bunch of other angry political punk rock while raking my yard to within an inch of it’s green life. Today, it’s a little easier. I watched a few of the comedic late night news shows, read, wrote and responded to my friends on social media, reached out to friends in an effort to feel less alone, and had an amazing conversation with on of my closest friends. The night was capped off with the most amazing, informative speaker at my son’s school, giving an informative presentation on ADHD. Tomorrow, life will still go on.

However, that doesn’t make everything okay.

Trump won. I truly hope he doesn’t fuck everything up beyond repair. I hope he’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to this country. I hope. It’s become almost a mantra to repeat this country has made it through worse, we can make it again. So the question for me really becomes: Why am I still so very unsettled and sad? Well, look at the cause and effect.

Trump’s campaign did what it was intended to do: It gave him the spotlight and attention he wanted. And he reveled in it, used it to his advantage. Every time we complained or tried to speak reason, we gave him more power. Trump put American dissent in a catch-22. Speak up, give him power, don’t speak up, feel even worse because how can one not speak out against the hateful campaign? And in doing so, it he opened the fucking gates of hell: American racists, misogynists, bigots and xenophobes were put into the spotlight, and he paved the way for their voices to be heard, for their hatred to be spread. Not only did he pave the way with his campaign, America put him the most powerful position. Whether intentional or not, we said his behavior is okay. It doesn’t matter what he does while in office regarding this matter; the gates of hatred have been opened, and, as a society, we now have to come together and clean up the mess.

I am not the most vocal about making my opinion heard unless directly confronted. Being a more reserved, shy person in my older age, I’ve turned to writing to get my thoughts and feelings out into the world. Some of us lead, other’s quietly back up those we believe in in a myriad of ways. Facebook is rife with dissent, heartbreaking with emerging stories of racism. The only thing we can really take from Trump’s hateful campaign is that there is a great number of people living in this society that are scary, and we need to come together to protect and build. The question becomes: How do we combat the ramifications of what we’ve done? How do we repair the societal split Trump caused and a great amount of people vindicated by voting for him, whether intentional or unintentional?

Trump in office will end. It might be okay, or it might takes years to repair the damage he does to the economy, foreign policy, human rights, and education. The road he paved to open hatred is what terrifies me. I am a straight, single white female, and though I may be heartbroken after Hillary Clinton’s concession speech and the ending moment during Michelle Wolf’s commentary on The Daily Show, my life will go on as always. However, so many people now have to worry about whether their present lives will change, and how they will face the newly VERY open road of hostility to those who are different.

What do we do? How do we get involved and change society and the preconceived notions that different is bad? How do we affect this change on a national level? I mean, in my home, I teach my child that though we are different we aren’t different in any way that matters. Skin color, disabilities, economic class, ethnicity, sexual orientation, lifestyle, gender identity, religion– these shouldn’t be by any means, EVER, what a person’s worth is judged on or what their worth is within society.Each person is complex and deserving of respect. WE ARE ALL HUMAN!! It’s so hard not swear right now, because I want to yell and swear and scream about the huge ramifications of such a hateful campaign!

How do we undo what Trump has given a spotlight to and as a country, we have, whether by popular vote or not, said is okay? I only have ideas, but I am sure there are active communities out there getting involved and vocalizing and trying their damnedest to affect a positive change.

  • Contact community volunteer organizations-get involved in the community to spread the message that hate and intolerance won’t be accepted. Volunteer at a battered women’s shelter, get involved with a community political group and peacefully, albeit loudly, voice your opinion.
  • Join larger groups, such ACLU
  • There are always petitions to sign, books to read, and messages of tolerance to spread. Call out the hateful speech around you and volunteer information on why it’s hateful or insulting, and don’t get hateful back. Don’t perpetuate intolerance or vindicate a person’s hateful speech by being insulting back. It’s just more fodder to the fire.
  • Stay informed, get educated, talk to people, organize, network

These are just some ideas that I’ve tossed around. I would love some concrete ideas, organizations (I’ve searched my own area, but I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for as far as community involvement). There are always politically active and outspoken people to get involved with, but for some of us, it is more difficult. However, I feel it time to try and push past the shyness and anxiety, so, as a nation, we can change the idea that hatred is acceptable, tolerable, or something we can simply ignore.  In the next four years, we need to come together and vote a capable, experienced, open minded, intelligent human being into office; not someone who was elected on a campaign playing to our fears and our defeats, exploiting our human weaknesses, and giving hate a platform on which to stand.

Today I Will Mourn, Tomorrow I Will Fight

“Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to prove anything that’s even remotely true.” -Homer Simpson

Well, Homer Simpson, it seems you were right.

Sleep last night sleep was impossible, and as the map of the United States became filled with red, my heart sped up and the anxiety and nausea set in. What was I to tell my child? What was I to do? How did America overwhelmingly vote such a vulgar, racist, misogynistic man into the most powerful, influential job in the country? And so many have done so happily and with a sense of overwhelming well being, completely disregarding his lack of knowledge, his dishonest claims, and his hate speech. Some did so because they wanted change, some did so because they liked Clinton less. The outcome is the same; Love did not win, not last night.

I’ve been thinking about what to write and how to make sense of my feelings. I’m not socially outspoken these days, and my anxiety has worsened. Most days I don’t leave my house. However, I know that there are so many people out there who spread the message of love and acceptance. It is time that I stop letting my own insecurities get in the way and get more involved. I’m not sure how, but I will be doing some research.

I am saddened. Was I naive to believe that there was no question more people would vote against such a hateful, fear mongering campaign? Was it naive of me to believe that republicans and democrats alike would vote against someone with absolutely no political or military experience? Someone propagating hateful, non inclusive rhetoric? Are there so many people who look past all of the hate speech just because Hillary Clinton was not who they wanted?

Like many, I am saddened and depressed, but soon that will pass. We will move on, life will take over, problems will arise, and the day to day will begin again. But for today, I will mourn this loss of my faith in love and togetherness. Tomorrow will be the day I fight to regain my faith in humanity. Tomorrow I will remember that there is so much love, so much kindness, and so many people willing to work together to make sure we are safe and accepted despite our differences; parents and sons and daughters and grandparents who are teaching their kids and friends and family about love and acceptance. Tomorrow, and four years from now, I will not be passive, I will not be scared. There are others voicing these opinions as well. We are not alone. Maybe this election will be the stepping stone to actually affect change, because we have essentially paved the way for intolerance and bigotry to spread and infect the populace. Honestly, with the media in question, I am reminded of Harry Potter and Voldemort. And maybe, it is a long shot, but maybe the next four years won’t be the biggest debacle in American politics. However, that still does not speak of the hateful rhetoric and the spread of fear, the discrediting of journalistic media, and all the of the other things this campaign set aside to win. Like truth and ethics and morals.

It is so hard for me to make sense of this. I suppose, in all fairness, Hillary Clinton is actually winning the popular vote, as did Al Gore back in 2000, but due to the electoral college, that is not enough. Perhaps it will be enough this election cycle to affect change. It has certainly effected me; back in 2000 I didn’t have a child to worry about and my future was as uncertain as how many beers I was going to consume at the bar. I am a mother now, with a responsibility to stand up for what I believe and to show my child how to do the same. I have hope we can come together as nation and figure out acceptance and love. I have to believe this, otherwise, what is the point?

 

 

And…We’re Almost Finished!

It’s almost over! In just a matter hours, the President of the United States of America will be announced. It will be the end of terrible political commercials gracing our TV’s, the end of social media feeds with friends and family waging an all out word war, and the end of the debates. This election season has utterly astounded me. The blatant racism, sexism, name calling, and social media sensationalism that has plagued this election is mind blowing. Maybe I’m an optimist, (and no one calls me an optimist), but I didn’t realize how many people there are in our country that are so terrified of politics as is that they’re willing to put Trump in office. And I am more than a little terrified for the outcome. I mean, I get it. The people want something different. ME TOO! However, I refuse to sacrifice my beliefs and my humanity and my humility to get it. And I don’t believe I’m sacrificing everything with a vote for Hillary. I know that many Trump supporters are either ignorant of his flagrant racism, sexism, and narcissism, or in denial due to their need for change, but I honestly don’t see how his ideals can be overlooked.

We have a great country, albeit, not perfect. It was founded on blood and has perpetuated an inherently flawed democracy throughout it’s existence. (I’m not completely against democracy, and I’m not completely convinced socialism is the answer, but our system IS broken). However, I have the freedom to wear what I want. I have the freedom to work or not work. I have the freedom to marry whomever I choose, or not. I can take my son for a walk down the street and we don’t worry about a bomb decimating our existence. We don’t need to make America Great Again. What does that even mean? Make it great when the wife’s job was to be a stay at home mom and our culture was a proprietor of segregation? Should we go back to white men ruling? What DOES Trump mean? Obama inherited the economy after eight years of George W. Bush; he has built it back up. He has opened ties with Cuba. He tried, albeit only partially successfully, to implement universal healthcare. We cannot afford to go backwards!

So, it’s almost coming to end. Once again, I’m going to proudly say I’m With Her. And I know many of my friends, family, and acquaintances don’t agree with me, but that’s okay. We have our freedom of choice, and today, I exercised mine. I hope everyone else did the same. I may not understand the reasons behind why many support Trump, or I may just be keeping myself ignorant because I’m cynical enough, but soon the election will be behind us.

I’ll close with a political punk play list I made this afternoon, because why not? I’m sure I’ve missed a million political punk songs that should have made  it on, so if you’re into punk and you feel like it, let me know what songs!

  • NOFX – Franco Un-American
  • Cobra Skulls – There’s A Skeleton In My Military Closet
  • Cobra Skulls – Rebel Fate
  • Cobra Skulls – Cobracoustic
  • Rancid – Dead Bodies
  • Op Ivy – Unity
  • Leftover Crack – System Fucked
  • Against All Authority – War Machine Breakdown
  • Anti-Flag – Die For The Government
  • Anti-Flag – Free Nation?
  • Bad Religion – Recipe For Hate
  • Bad Religion –  Progress
  • Bad Religion –  You Are (The Government)
  • Propagandhi – Bullshit Politicians
  • Black Flag – Rise Above
  • Dead Kennedys – Kill The Poor
  • Adolescents – Democracy
  • Street Dogs – Rebel Song