don't deny your inner child

I stumbled across The Dead Milkmen by accident... when I was young. 

I was a hopeful art student in 1982, on my way to my menial job of scooping ice cream in an effort to supplement the small student loan I had to contract in order to pay my tuition. Making my way to my job on Philadelphia's notorious South Street, I spotted a simple, single-color, hand-drawn flyer crookedly tacked to a wall near 6th and Lombard, adjacent to the entrance of Levis', the legendary purveyor of hot dogs since 1895. The black & white manifesto expounded on the so-called "serrated edge" philosophy that seemed to be the core of the Dead Milkmen's vision. The grinning cartoony cow — with equally-cartoony "X"s over its eyes — belied an underlying sarcastic tone to the whole thing. At the bottom of the flyer was revealed its true purpose. There was an address and an offer to send for a cassette tape of a collection of songs — recorded in a suburban barn by the Milkmen themselves. "Count me in!," I thought to myself, "These smartasses are my kind of smartasses!" I was a fan of the current trends in pop-punk music (or punk-pop music, depending on which sub-genre is most prevalent) and The Dead Milkmen instantly appealed to me. When I got home that night, I quickly dashed off a check (in the quaint pre-Venmo days) to the Dead Milkmen for my very own sampling of their music, sending it along with a lengthy note — hand-embellished with my own satirical artwork — questioning their philosophy, their outlook, their hopes and dreams and other topics of which I feigned interest. A week or so later, I received a copy — well-wrapped to prevent possible shipping damage — of Death Rides a Pale Cow. The cover photo — a many-times Xeroxed image of a cow — told me that this was to be a smarmy continuation of the humorously rambling dissertation contained on that flyer I saw on a South Philly wall. And, sure enough, The Dead Milkmen didn't disappoint. I played that cassette in my lesser-priced GE version of the Sony Walkman until the magnetically-coated, polyester tape stretched thin. I turned my musically ignorant friends on to the high-octane (and high camp) wonders of Labor Day and Beach Party Vietnam. In a concerted effort to lure them from the hypnotic repetitiveness of A Flock of Seagulls and the faux romanticism of Culture Club, I blasted Veterans of a Fucked Up World with only their enlightenment on my mind. I was young, snotty and angry... but I wasn't "The Adicts" angry. I was Dr. Demento angry.

The Dead Milkmen were the personification of my youth. Rough. Arrogant. Funny... even if they were the only ones who thought they were funny. Their songs were sarcastic little commentaries on things that society held dear. They sang about stuff I drew and I drew stuff they sang about. 

It's a funny thing, though. As much as I loved The Dead Milkmen — and I loved them! — I didn't get to see them perform live until 2014. That's right, 32 years after I first saw their silly flyer stuck to a brick wall with a bunch of other flyers. However, I made up for it, because I saw them perform in a cemetery. Just after that show, I began to follow and interact with the surviving members of the band on several social media platforms (Sadly, original bassist Dave Blood took his own life in 2004). Guess what? Things change when you grow old.

Guitarist and co-vocalist Joe Jack Talcum's presence on social media is pretty sporadic as compared to his bandmates. Joe mostly announces upcoming small gigs, displays his art and gets tagged in a slew of Facebook posts of videos that are decidedly uncharacteristic of a member of the Dead Milkmen.

Dean Clean, the drummer for the Dead Milkmen, posts a lot pictures of his musical equipment. Sure, most musicians like to show off their cool new toys. Evidentially, Dean owns a wide variety of gadgets and gizmos replete with dials and lights and knobs and jacks in to which other gizmos can be plugged. But, Dean also shares the beautiful results of his prowess behind the stove. Dean, as it turns out, is quite the food aficionado, capturing close-up shots of an inviting backyard grill or an artsy perspective of a perfectly arranged charcuterie board. During the summer of 2020, when everyone was huddled in their homes fearful of the looming coronavirus, Dean asked for fan's addresses via Instagram. Those who responded were treated to a limited edition, hand-drawn postcard from the same guy who kept the pounding backbeat on Life is Shit.

Most of my Dead Milkmen interaction is with Rodney Anonymous. Rodney often hosts live Instagram "reports," walking through his South Philadelphia neighborhood and divulging little known facts about locations regularly passed by and ignored by pedestrians. He also speaks out about issues that face folks of ... shall we say... a certain age. Rodney is also a fan of my television watching habits, as is evidenced by the "likes" he gives to my regular posts of "screen shots" from fifty year old sitcoms. Based on the reruns I watch and the approvals he gives, we lived parallel lives in front of the family "boob tube" in our formative years. On occasion, I will serve up a playful shot at Rodney about his punk rock salad days... and he accepts my good-natured jibes like a sport. He also likes when I post cat pictures.

Collectively, The Dead Milkmen host an online Q & A on YouTube, on which they talk about a wide range of subjects and answer burning questions from their now-senior fanbase. It is essentially four guys, approaching their twilight years, discussing things while they nurse a cup of coffee at the neighborhood diner... except they're on Zoom.

I have suddenly (and reluctantly) come to the realization that I am old, my contemporaries are old and my heroes are old. We all get old. And even if we try to avoid mirrors, there are mirrors all around us. I still fancy myself that rebellious kid with vinegar in his veins, ready to take on the big, bad oppressive world. But when I look in an actual mirror, I see a white haired man, very reminiscent of my father. It's okay, though, because there's an old expression — one I heard used by my parents and grandparents and other assorted old people: "You're as young as you feel." 

I finally understand exactly what that means.

Note: After I finished writing this, I saw Sting delivering clues on "Jeopardy!" Now I really know what that means.

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