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There are many mornings where I am too tired to remember exactly why people are staring at me on the subway train. Did I have something on my face? Am I not wearing any pants? Ah crap, I have a big green stream of snot extending itself from my nose to the floor, don't I?

As I sit and ponder these questions in my mind, asking myself just what I was doing that was causing everyone to look at me, it started to dawn on me. As I stared from my feet to my reflection in the glass on the opposing side of the train, it hit me.

"Just look at that goofball!" I thought, "Hair extending its way towards the roof, and a face adorned with so much metal that you could lift them with a fridge magnet"

Yep. That was me, alright.

I went bug-eyed as the facts started to sink into that sleepy skull of mine. That crazy-haired lady in the glass was me. Sometimes I just forget, as you begin to get used to looking a certain way year after year. Still staring at myself and feeling eyes drilled into the back of my head - hundreds of early morning commuters studied me from all directions.

Now, if you were to ask somebody what the greatest thing was about being a punk, they might tell you about being in the mosh pit at the latest Subhumans concert, setting off fireworks in garbage cans, or perhaps getting rowdy with their friends under the bridge out of town - getting trashed, wasted, and vomiting into their friends favorite Fedora. Those times are all well and good, but I would have to say that the greatest thing about looking the way I do is probably sitting on this subway train right now.

I love the music. I love the attitude. But getting trashed and passing out in the streets didn't particularly interest me. No, it didn't really appeal to me at all. But sitting here amongst people who don't really know you can have it's advantages and its fun. A situation that many punks will tell you that they hate to get themselves in.

I am a contemplative punk. A label not heard of by many, but only because I just made it up. A label that I stick to myself with pride - a label on my leather jacket, held onto me by many buttons, zippers, and safety pins.

Every weekday morning, I make this commute with many others. Various suits, ties, frilly shirts and short skirts - overcoats, dress shoes, and pointy healed hooves. Often times I stand by the door, but if I am lucky I will grab a seat if it isn't already taken in this ridiculous rush-hour traffic - this is where I begin my morning routine.

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