A Gang of Misfits (Shirts)

Too Much Horror Business?

Zine preview

Read “A Gang of Misfits (Shirts)” in PDF zine form below to escape the rigid confines of Substack’s formatting, or enjoy it below in the standard, optimized format. Read the PDF in the browser, download it, do as you will. I guarantee the file is virus free.

---

SINCE THE TIME I WAS A BRIGHT-EYED TEENAGER IN THE MID TO LATE NIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETIES,

when I discovered the seminal punk rock assemblage of horror movie loving, mostly shirtless weirdos, the Misfits, I have owned, and proudly adorned myself with about one hundred and thirty eight of their branded t-shirts, all in various styles, sizes, colors, and designs.

The very first of what would become a life-long purchasing decision was a t-shirt featuring the air-brushed-like visage of Misfits bass guitar player Jerry Only, prominently featuring his iconic “Devilock” hairstyle, which is like a reverse “rattail,” collecting all of the hair on top of his head into one, single tail-like spike, or “lock” that would be draped down the center of his face. Iconic. Held high to his sneering face was one, fingerless, leather, studded gloved fist. The design, along with the band name, aggressively took up the whole front of the shirt, and not to be subtle, the same design was repeated on the shirt’s backside, wrapping my torso in a cotton blend of Jerry Only.

I wore it everywhere, proudly declaring my adoration of the band via Jerry’s air-brushed sneering demeanor.

My mother hated this shirt. Of all the weird and gross punk band shirts I owned while living under her suburban, Aurora, Colorado roof, for some reason this one offended her the most. Clearly she was not impressed by Jerry Only’s fashion choice, or his abundant black eyeliner, she disappointingly shook her head at me anytime I was in her vicinity while wearing said shirt.

One day, according to her, the shirt was “lost” in the wash, deploying an age old parenting technique akin to telling children the family dog went to a farm “upstate.” The joke was on her, however, as this just meant I now needed a new Misfits shirt to replace the one “lost” to her inept laundry skills.

Thus the Misfits shirt collecting began. Aided by the nineteen hundred and nineties resurgence and reformation of the band and their KISS-like devotion to merchandising their brand on to every product imaginable, Misfits shirts were not in short supply, if you knew where to get them, and I did. A place so full of Misfits shirts you could never wear them all in one human lifespan: downtown, the term used to specify one single city block in the actual downtown area of Denver that contained the business establishment “Wax Trax Records” and ancillary business “Across the Trax” that dealt in music related fashion and accessories.

Me and my motley crew of punk rock, Misfits loving friends could procure a parent-free ride “downtown” and with our own money purchase our very own Misfits shirts without the clucking naysaying of Jerry Only hating mothers.

The Misfits shirts soon became legion and by junior/senior year of high school our group of friends were all sporting Misfits shirts on the regular. Spread across seven or eight fashion-forward teenagers nary did anybody have matching Misfits shirts but with the sheer volume in which we purchased these shirts, crossover was inevitable. After one too many occasions when one or more of us came to school in matching Misfits attire, group fuddy-duddy and perpetual stick in the mud, Ratt, decided he had had enough, afraid that the possibility of him appearing in the halls of our high school adorned in the same Misfits shirt as a compatriot would result in him looking “foolish.” To correct this he set about the most punk of ideas, rigid rule setting, by devising a schedule that would dictate which days, and by whom, which Misfits shirts would be deemed wearable, thusly freeing him from any fashion faux pas.

His schedule was met with absolute scorn and mockery. Undeterred, and presumably hoping to lead by example, he stock to his schedule. He was the only one, and in open defiance of his scheduled fashion plan, we began to actively coordinate the wearing of matching Misfits shirts. The audacity! This only enraged Ratt further and upon seeing just how enraged our t-shirt defiance made him spurned us to continue our matching shirt rebellion until Ratt was forced to abandon his plan and take the chance that he may be a Misfits matcher on occasion.

The day had been won and Misfits shirt-wearing went unfettered, littering the halls of our school, where the sheer volume of teenagers covered in Misfits attire lead some of the “unhip” faculty to believe there might be a “Misfits gang” roaming the school. Gangs being of utmost concern among high school authority figures in the nineteen hundred and nineties.

By the time senior year of high school rolled around the Misfits shirts were firmly in control with no sign of relenting, but they’d have to make it through to graduation if they were ever to be free from these oppressive public education halls. In order to do that I’d have to complete the high school’s rigid Physical Education credit requirements. Two credits were required and me, absolutely detesting Physical Education and all it stood for, put it off as long as possible, hoping nobody would notice. They did, and first thing senior year I was forced to appear in “Flag Football and Field Hockey” class, a fate worse than death. Fortunately, all was not lost and three more of our “Misfits gang” were forced into the class as well, punishment for their lack of previous Physical Education participation. Immediately we clung to each other and tried to hide in the back of the gym but sticking out like black Misfits shirt-clad thumbs amongst a crowd of smiling, sporting inclined, footballing enthusiasts.

A small, wild-eyed, frantic man entered the gym, Mister Bemis, and loudly demanded to know who voluntarily signed up for this torture. All but four hands shot enthusiastically into the air. He surveyed the situation, sized up our group of scowling introverts and loudly, confidently declared that the hand raisers were alpha dogs and we, we were the parasitic amoebas. This was already going well.

Every morning at the ungodly hour of seven thirty we reported to the Flag Football and Field Hockey class, and every morning we refused to “dress out,” IE, remove the copious amounts of chains, studs, waffle-making Doc Martin boots, and our permanently affixed Misfits shirts, and replace them with (GASP) tennis shoes, gym shorts, and school provided, hand-me-down, gym shirts. Not dressing out meant you could not participate in the days activities, a loophole we thought, though non-participation meant a zero mark for the day. We didn’t care. We refused to participate in any manner.

Growing tired of our lack of enthusiasm, Bemis eventually forced us to engage in football regardless of our state of dress, and drug us begrudgingly out to the field where he informed one of our crew that he reminded him of Spicoli, portrayed by Sean Penn in the nineteen hundred and eighties high school comedy “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” and that he used to beat kids like “Spicoli” up “back in his day.” Clearly he did not know our names, nor did he ever intend to learn them and collectively began referring to us as “the Misfits gang.”

“Misfits Gang, out on the field,” he’d proclaim.

While he managed to get us on to the field, he could not get us to participate and we’d just stand idly by while football happened around us, the active kids upset that we were in the way.

In his next move against us, Bemis forced us into a small, sectioned off part of the field where we were to play our own, private game of football.

“Let’s go Misfits, let’s go! Hustle up,” he bellowed. Hustle never happened.

Bemis was a wild man who I had as my teacher again for my second gym class of the day, “Personal Fitness,” and I have many stories of his highly outrageous and personally embarrassing antics, but I believe, he believed his intentions were good and come the end of football class he allowed us to all write papers about football in order to pass the class, which we did, after I copied a bunch of football factoids from the information superhighway, compiled them in a paper, made four copies, each one individually labeled with one of our names, and turned them in to receive passing grades.

“Good work Misfits, good work!”

At the inevitable end of the school year, and in preparation for graduation day, my shirt-losing mother demanded I cut my hair for the ensuing onslaught of photos. While at the neighborhood barber, sitting in the chair, hair being cut from my head, the bell on the door chimes and in struts Mr. Bemis, looks me dead in the eyes and fairly screams, “Hey, Misfits, good haircut, good haircut.”

Finally, at graduation, the reign of the Misfits gang would come to an end. Upon leaving the ceremony, one of the gang was approached by a fellow graduate and quizzically asked “I gotta know, what is up with these Misfits shirts?”

Since that day in May of the year two thousand until now, my forty second year of life, I’ve always had a Misfits shirt in my drawer, albeit as the years have passed, fewer and fewer. As of today I own but one Misfits shirt, which is both the loudest and most subtle Misfits shirt I’ve owned. It is a long-sleeve, button up flannel shirt, colored in the classic purple and green hues of the Misfits heaviest album “Earth A.D.” with a subtle, tiny Misfits logo on the breast pocket. It’s been through the wash numerous times and each time has returned to me unscathed.