The Dangerous Mind of Dan Luke

During high school I grew my hair out to girl like proportions. I was the stunning image of Disney’s Johnny Tsunami, a shaggy haired, rebellious Hawaiian youth with a scorn for private snooty schools and a love of surfboard and some totally epic tides. It was during this time that I confided in an all flannel wardrobe. I would have been the stunning image of a Lumberjack if it weren’t for my torn jeans and “KURT COBAIN WAS THE SECOND COMING OF CHRIST,” mentality. In fact, I’ll be damned if I was the most popular kid in high school because of my individuality. People coined a charming unique nickname for me “Douchebag,” which is Deutsch for “Very Charming bag of Individuality.“

My devotion to this one and only rock God, Kurt Cobain, lead to the development of this morbid curiosity with suicide. Suddenly, all these artists linked with suicide just seemed so cool: Elliott Smith, Jeff Buckley, Ian Curtis, and finally Kurt Vonnegut. An author my cousin recommended to me at my Grandmother’s Funeral.“What are you doing for college,” He said.

“I’m gonna be a writer.”
“A writer?” He responded, “Have you read Vonnegut?”
“Who?”

His jaw dropped. His eye’s exploded, brow narrowed and furious, “You mean you haven’t heard of Vonnegut?“

He spat rabidly at the audacity of the situation, “what kind of writer hasn’t heard of Vonnegut?!”

He told me to pick up Slaughter-House Five. I did. But it wasn’t until I heard that Vonnegut had attempted suicide in 1984 that I got especially absorbed in the book. His cynical dry wit and articulate love of just speaking his mind and expressing himself through writing were both as inspirational as they were entertaining. That Vonnegut, let me tell you, that motherfucker spat HOT FIRE.

Upon my arrival to Art College I was ambitious, zestful, and energetic. I was open eyed and completely optimistic too, this was art school after all. I was going to meet fascinating new people with similar interests and musical tastes and it was going to be this giant hazy orgy of hand painting, hallucinogens, deep political insight, and frequent grotesque spanking (Rated R for slight nudity and sexiness). None of that happened… in fact, I kind of just went to college and drank a lot beer and wrote papers.

Early on though, I fell in with an Indie crowd. There was just something so fucking cool about the scene. It was like this authentic group that believed good music would just preeeeeeeeevail man. But that fell apart fast, I remember some of my friends getting tattoos on their wrists that read, “Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.” I remember Indie kids coming up to marvel at their wrists before remarking, “That’s soooo Vonnegut.” Then they’d do this complimentary Indie kid high five and talk about why Stephen Malkmus was God.Now, this isn’t an attack at Indie kids. In fact: God bless you Indie darlings of America. God bless you, as American Apparel wouldn’t be the Jewish money-grubbing corporation known for off tones and colors that it is so loved for today. God bless you as if you weren’t around a pitchfork would just be a farming utensil and not a prestigious musical judgment site. But the truth is, I’m fucking drowning in Indie kids. I can’t escape from them! Lately I’ve just been defending myself with a bazooka that fires Limp Bizkut T-Shirts, but God knows how long it will be until they start wearing those in an attempt to be “Ironic.”

Don’t get me wrong. I love Indie music. I love my vans slip on’s, my gangster hat, and my V-Neck Tee (complete with fake chest hair), and I love the fun that comes with being an Indie kid (skinny, scruffy, and borderline emo). One that takes on a “Holier than thou” attitude and marches right into Hot Topic and says “May I get all your CURTIS KOBBIN TEE SHIRTS PLEASE?”And the cashier with about ten thousand piercings goes, “You mean Kurt Cobain.”
And you go, “No, CURTIS KOBBIN. FROM NERVANE-AH, HE DID THAT ONE SONG… WHAT WAS IT AGAIN? SMELLS LIKE TEENAGERS?”

And I love the joy that vibrates in my bones as an Indie kid when that Hot Topic employees face swells up to a bright red as each and every one of his pimples violently explodes into slimy cesspool of rage all over his oily fat skin.

But since hearing that line, “That’s soooo Vonnegut!” The scene has left a distinct distaste in my mouth. In fact, whenever I think about it I violently shit my pants. I mean, fuck… this is the great American author, this is THE Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle Kurt Vonnegut, and here you are referring to him as if you’re going “OHMYGAWD! THAT’S SOOOO RAVEN!” He’s a fucking captain of the literary form, not an ironic catchphrase from a Disney show about a young African American girl’s battle against her high school dean, society, parents, and boys all in one hilarious and zesty thirty minute romp!

The Vonnegut in my mind, the one that I loved so dearly, was the old man I saw in pictures: So disenchanted, so disillusioned, so smart, witty, honest, and fucking genius. A man that I admired so much that I felt disillusioned from an entire genre just because of one person’s remark. A man that taught me that writing wasn’t about pleasing others, but about being myself and finding all the irony and joy in pain.

In one of his essays on writing, Vonnegut closes by saying, “write about something you care about.” In essence that is what this blog is about: The people I care about, the things I’ve lived, the things that make me mad, sad, happy, or enlightened and sharing them with as many people as I possibly can.

But here, at least in this essay, I wrote about him.

God Bless you Mr. Vonnegut
November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007