What We Do Is Not So Secret - My Punk Rock Part 3

Birth of a Nerd Rock Superstar

When I listen to Weezer's first album, I remember Jeffrey Leachman. I met Jeffrey within thirty minutes of first arriving at Awtrey Middle School for the first day of my sixth grade year. Our homeroom teacher was an older lady and wasn't really good with names; some could argue that her glory days of teaching were long gone, and she was just apathetically counting the days down 'til reaching retirement or death, whichever could have possibly come first. To remedy her problems with memorizing names and faces, she sat us in alphabetical order by our last names. Jeffrey sat slouched down in front of me, his malnurished, string-bean frame accented by visibly big ears and a short haircut that looked like he had just rolled out of bed. He was wearing matching honey-gold sweatpants and a sweatshirt; he was resting his head in one hand while the other drew invisible shapes on the desk, stopping every few minutes to push his thick, clear-framed glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. Jeffrey tended to twitch every now and then, as if someone snuck up behind him; in addition, he had buck teeth in the worst way. I suppose the bullied kids of the world can smell their own, because I sized Jeffrey Leachman up for dead before the first bell even rang.

By the time lunch came around, Jeffrey had become the object of many pointing fingers and wandering eyes of his peers. One particularly comes to mind, a taller athletic kid named David; he was well-dressed and groomed, and he would more than likely be the first kid to tell you he was proud of it. David was the first kid that I remember approaching Jeffrey Leachman with cruel intentions. Regardless of what he has made of his life since that day in the Awtrey Middle School cafeteria, no matter his status as a gutsy politician or possibly the first doctor to find the cure for all cancer, I will never be able to truly forgive and forget the prick he was when we were merely 12 years old.

Jeffrey had sat himself at the far end of the table; I was sitting towards that end as well, because I didn't really know anybody in my lunch class at the time. Jeffrey had his salad cup set apart from his tray. David walked and made a comment to the effect of, "You not eating your salad?" He might have even called him a rabbit in reference to his aforementioned buck teeth (If not then, certainly at another point in time). It was then that Jeffrey claimed in a matter-of-fact way that he was allergic to lettuce. Apparently, this was all the information that David needed. Word had traveled around the sixth grade that this Leachman kid was "scared" of lettuce. Every lunch period over the following few weeks, at least one hot shot, David included, would tauntingly hold out a piece of lettuce towards Jeffrey's face. With a howl, Jeffrey would jump away in fear; the further back he jumped, the more they would laugh. There were times that kids would sneak a piece of lettuce back to class with them, just to lay it on his chair. Oh, how quickly the charming innocence of youth can give way to sheer cruelty. And they wonder why reality TV got so big.

As the teasing of Jeffrey Leachman became more and more of an everyday activity, I was pulled aside by my homeroom teacher. It had been decided by the other teachers that since Jeffrey and I shared most of the same classes, conveniently sat close to the end of the lunch table together, and I was conveniently of larger size than Jeffrey, I would watch out for any troublemakers who would pick on him and report any ill-willed actions to the teachers. It was a job I neither asked for nor wanted. I was a big kid in sixth grade, but that's just a subtle way of saying that I was overweight. I wasn't built for intimidation or speed. I couldn't pose a threat to any of these guys that were giving Jeffrey a hard time, and I couldn't run away fast enough when they decided it was my face that they were ready to pound. In effect, Baby Huey was looking after Tweety Bird. Alas, what's right is right, and I did my best to keep those guys away from Jeffrey. Soon, it was me that they hated, and part of me resented Jeffrey for that reason. I was 12 and didn't know any better, but I guess David and the rest of his like would argue that now, too.

Recently, in the midst of writing this, I have wondered where Jeffrey Leachman is. Part of me has always wondered about the possibility of him picking up a guitar. Though I only recalled certain instances of his childhood misery, it seems to me that he could be a completely different person now. I would love to see him on TV as a political pundit, speaking for the little man. I could certainly see him as a tech geek turned billionaire. In that bout of fantasy, it would be fitting that David was his personal assistant (fate could be so kind). As a music geek, what I see in Jeffrey Leachman was a creative time bomb in the making. Within the weak little body, I could hear that screaming vengeance, that disenchanted youth, and perhaps even a sad longing for understanding that he could never find in his own peers. Jeffrey didn't seem to have the passion for music that I do, but for me, he is Paul Westerberg's wail at the very beginning of "Bastards of Young" by the Replacements. In Paul Westerberg's howling, I hear the exact same thing.

Jeffrey Leachman could be a Rivers Cuomo in hiding. Rivers wore thick-rimmed glasses, and he dressed in a hand-me-down shirt that seemed a little big for him. I first saw, and heard Rivers and his band Weezer on MTV when they aired the video for "Undone (The Sweater Song)". Nirvana had lashed out with unrelenting angst. Green Day brought that level of apathy the youth could realate with from the alternative waves to the mainstream. Weezer showed that even the most non-provocative demographic (read nerds, geeks, and wierdos) harnessed a feedback-laced punk sound of their own. The nerds who had sheltered themselves in KISS-laced rock and roll fantasies in the confines of their garage finally had a voice in the rock market that wasn't limited to the lament of Pavement, the humor of They Might Be Giants, or the oddball Dead Milkmen (though I personally love each of these). This same nerd that Cuomo embraced in that debut Weezer album seems to barely scratch the surface of what I witnessed in the life of Jeffrey. Something tells me an album by Jeffrey Leachman would make Rivers Cuomo seem like a novelty, only because I don't even know if Jeffrey knew who KISS was.

What We Do Is Not So Secret: My Punk Rock-Part 2

Middle School on Ice Planet Hoth
Upon entering the doors on the first day of any kid's tenure in middle school, was there any preconceived notion pertaining to anything other than how much it was going to suck? Elementary seemed to end like 'Star Wars'. Every fifth Grader, the Luke Skywalker's that we were, walked down the halls in parade fashion to the sound of applause and cheers from students, faculty, and staff members; the Rebels had just blown up the Death Star, freedom prevailed, and it was in good form to clap for the kids who made it possible. The big difference between how it happened in reality and my 'Star Wars'-lavished memory of it is that Carrie Fisher never handed me a medal. In fact, the fifth grade victory parade happened EVERY year; it was routine more than tradition. While the teachers were certainly proud of our accomplishments [because it ultimately is a reflection of their hard work], the younger students were actually thinking, "I have been clapping non-stop for twenty minutes, and you fifth grade jerks are out of here? I should be so lucky." It wouldn't be a stretch to suspect the janitors and lunch ladies agreed.


Middle school was 'The Empire Strikes Back'; the overall theme seemed darker, numerous attempts to gain ground seemed to fail [like on Hoth], girls fall for scoundrels [like Han Solo], some old friends may sell you out [just like Billy Dee Williams], new allies help support you [like Yoda], hormones run stir-crazy as the strict father clashes with the rebellious son [like Luke and Vader], and in the end, your heroes are defeated. In a strange twist, you are left with a great emphasis on character development and a clearer view of purpose. 'Empire' only lasted a little over two hours and is considered one of the best films ever; middle school took three years.


Enough with the George Lucas foot-kissing...


In sixth grade,I was a loser and I was angry, but not just due to the standard hormonal imbalances inherent in every guy hitting puberty at the time. It wasn't that the same kid fears that haunted me in elementary were now a few inches taller and the voices slightly deeper, and it had very little to do with my overall distaste for the new mathematical riddles, off-white prison-painted walls, or the less than appetizing mid-day cafeteria food. At 24, it finally becomes so clear what really was the center of my distress: the woes of a kid named Jeffrey Leachman.



Before we recall the story of Jeffrey Leachman, let's first remember that twilight had already passed on the peak of the early '90's Seattle scene that birthed Nirvana, and Kurt Cobain had been dead for an entire summer. Two summer months must have been all the time that every other kid my age needed to revisit their opinions, because upon arrival to Awtrey Middle School in August of 1994, some of the same kids who mocked me and beat me up for my love of Nirvana and the like were now donning their t-shirts. More and more atheletic types were cross-pollinated with punk rock fashion. Atlanta's top 40 hit station, Power 99, was now alternative rock radio 99X. Beavis and Butthead was TV show of choice. The same kids that hated me last year now hated me even more, but they sure did love the music I listened to.

I was heartbroken. What made the music of Kurt Cobain any different in August than it was in March? Why did they love him so much now? Was it a simple change of ideas, or could it have been the unwitting rock martyrdom that Cobain created with a shotgun blast to the face? Maybe this new crop of mimics and hypocrites were the Roman soldiers of our day, nailing a Christ to the cross in mockery, only realizing after he has died that he was truly the son of God [certainly an over-the-top remark, but at the time I was 12, pissed, and uneducated]. I never really could cope with the idea that my personal hero now somehow related to everyone that I couldn't even stand at the time. I'm sure you knew the type of folks I am talking about; in a conversation, they would be the one to proclaim, "Nirvana's Nevermind was the greatest debut album ever." and the flock of other fools nodded in agreement as I rolled my eyes. Go figure. Needless to say, I stopped listening to Nirvana for a while; there wasn't really a reason to.

A Love Letter to Kennedy

In the fall of that same year, I flipped over to MTV's Alternative Nation, a show that focused specifically on the alternative rock movement that was now in bloom. The show was usually hosted by the darling VJ known as Kennedy. With her thick-framed glasses, frizzy hair, and fruitful knowledge of all things rock, she quickly became the girl of my dreams. Juliana Hatfield sang in the song "My Sister" about how her older sibling was going to take her to her first "All Ages" show featuring the Violent Femmes and the Del Fuegos; that sounded to me like my dream date with Kennedy. In my mind, it made total logical sense that a charming TV personality in her mid-20's would be easily won over by a sophisticated, caring 12 year old nerd like me. I could imagine winning her over with a line about how much I dug Local H or buying her a drink and simply listing the numerous ways in which she was better than Tabitha Soren [the other smart, pretty woman on MTV]. We would sing "Punk Rock Girl" by the Dead Milkmen at the highest volume possible while cruising around town to all the record stores, jokingly holding up the crappiest albums we can find and telling each other how much we need to buy them because they are so bad that they are actually good [i.e. Cathy Dennis and Rick Astley].

This, of course, was at a time back in the prehistoric days of 1994 when the basis for most of MTV's programming was still music. "Real World" cast members were still somewhat normal and boring people, "Beavis and Butthead" were still on the air, Jon Stewart was hosting a fledgling talk show, and Laguna Beach wasn't even a location mentioned on "MTV Sports". Kurt Loder and the aforementioned Miss Soren covered the goings-on every week on "Week In Rock". Some music videos were made with artistic integrity [i.e. Pearl Jam's "Jeremy"] while others were just as absurd as they are today, but they seemed awesome at the time [i.e. Guns 'n' Roses' "November Rain" and Aerosmith's "Crazy"].

A night out with Kennedy would come to a close as we watched videotaped reruns of "My So-Called Life", a show I am not afraid to admit that I watched. Claire Danes was so pretty, but don't tell Kennedy I said that. Afterall, Claire Danes wasn't the girl who introduced me to Green Day; Kennedy was.