Happy Holidays, Loners. Blessed yule, ya filthy fuckwads, you reckless poets, you restless souls, you rock and rollers, you goddamn gorgeous punks. How have you been? I know, I know. It’s been so fucking hard. I bet you’re barely holding down our blanket fort. You’re feeling a volcanic rage at the short-sighted powers that be. Cynicism feels like the only way to survive. It’s fight or flight, and we’re outta here. We unshoulder our hope–too burdensome–and make a run for it. We retreat from rampant ignorance & mass shootings, capitalism & starbucks cups. It feels insurmountable, so we power down. We order in. We Netflix and Chill.
Don’t worry, this week’s gospel isn’t Van Zandt’s “Waiting Around To Die.” That would not befit the first “Sunday Punk Rock Gospel” in a decade, released on CHRISTMAS DAY, in the debut issue of Cream Scene’s re-birth.
I know better than that. I know what made this feature take off…why you peeked in every Sunday. I served up an oozing slice of hope, while waxing poetic on punk rock and some aspect of spirituality, as it related to a song.
But today, I bring you John Waters’ Commencement Speech.
John Waters likens an arts-career to a hitchhiking trip. “All you need is one person to say ‘GET IN!’ and off you go.” Well, guess what? Cream Scene Carnival is YOUR hitchhiking trip. Our chaotic, typo-riddled circus train has pulled into town. We’re here. It’s time. Load up.
LET’S MAKE A SCENE!
Katy and I spent 2022 dreaming of bohemian scenes that powered change: Paris in the 20s, Romero and his ragtag crew in Pittsburg, John Waters and Cookie Mueller in Baltimore. We implore you to join us in this endeavor.
Art and rebellion go hand in hand. Toss molotov cocktails of love n’ paint n’ poetry. Remember the punk rock essence of the mythological trickster, the koan of the kinkster and the Sphinxian riddle of the weirdo.
Become the chaos in our industry. Be the sneak attacks, trojan horses, trangressive techs, disobedient players and monkeywrenching mercenaries. Let’s turn the system inside out and figure out how to avoid assholes.
What do you say? Ya in?
Katy and I can’t wait to see what Cream Scene does next, collectively, as we all swirl into each other and form new shapes and colors. I apologize for my errors and typos…but ya know what? I’m imperfect and so are you. Someone called us a chaos magazine and I had to laugh. There is nothing more potent in this world than chaos. We can make something of this. I have faith in us.
Merry Christmas, you sugar plums, fat bums, hellraisers and satanist softies. Happy Festivus, you twinned stars, fruit stainers, earth angels, embarrassment artists, cyber nomads, muse-models, time traveling sexperts, stoner chefs, tangy bones, tinned beans, pink zombies, paper surgeons, Neptunians, moon buckets, blatant blanks and pink drinks. Kinky Yule to Marz, with their book wagon. A goddamn round of applause to our singing bird, Katy, who is the steadfast heart of this magazine. She feeds the glitter engine that keeps this train running.
GET IN! LET’S GO!
It’s beginning to look a lot like Filthmas… Silent Night, filthy night Mary’s filth child, Jesus Christ… I’m delirious. I need a devil’s cigarette.