It’s pretty easy to tell, actually. If you’re a part of the Oakland Gutteratti, you’re probably already deciding that you don’t want to read an eviscerating analysis of everything that goes into being the pride and glory of the scum fuck gutter gang of the dirty streets of Oakland. Because it would be redundant. But don’t forget, not everybody out there is keen to the exact motivation behind partying face first to the pavement at dawn or the importance of doing it. It’s a preemptive defense against being labeled mindless consumers, because, come on, we all know we do it for culture, for the art, for the music, for fun, pure pursuits. For the sake of the living, breathing moments. To accelerate beyond the smallness that the American Dream has become. Anarchy.
The Oakland Gutteratti is beautiful. Yes. Beautiful. Glamorous. Gorgeous. The type of face you could eat with a spoon and a smile. The girls, beneath the bitter taste of under eye concealer and foundation powders and any array of nail polishes and hairspray, wrapped lovingly – well, let me rephrase that, it’s more like sausaged lovingly into a variety of vintage denim and/or spandex blended garments. And the boys, oh the boys, they are just the same, lingering behind their several layers of grit and grime and swagger that might not be completely proportionate to their dick size. All of them so keen on the things that qualify as trendy today, but filtered through the off kilter lens of poverty and half completed art classes. Injected with a well balanced mixture of smugness, strut, and sociopathic sociability. Each and every one, with each and every flaw, overcompensated for in every way imaginable, skilled fuckers and skilled at fucking, priding themselves on the giving and receiving of blow jobs, uneducated in the traditional ways yet they are still so good at making you feel stupid. Drunk. Quite often. Black out drunk. Every weekend. With cigarettes and a myriad of rainbow pills and powders.
Lurking as usual in the expected low rent corners of Oakland, tucked cozy into the West, the Dirty Thirties, the Lower Bottoms, Ghost Town, Murder Dubs, Jingle Town, Uptown, Downtown, China Town. Naively contributing to the gentrification that they utterly rue, and ambivalently skirting the random violence of the occasional crack heads, with whom there is a tacit agreement to unquestioningly coexist. Those bedrooms, low rent, littered so artfully with the trademark filth and clutter of the Gutteratti sign posts. Messy kitchens. Messy hair. Scattered clothing, porches full of bicycles, empty beer bottles. The casual backdrop to the every day. Returning noisily from whatever day shift dumb job coffee shop school day unemployment thrift club jaunt – you know, whatever it is that fills up the larger part of the day and is quickly forgotten in lieu of alcohol and Netflix and parties and art shows and dates and hang outs and bands and bars and fun. Listless days running blurry into fuck filled nights.
And if you’re a member of the Oakland Gutteratti, then you would already know what’s going on tonight. I don’t need to tell you. Quickly check Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, text messages, in with roommates, quickly to the liquor store and kick off an evening of more of the same whatever from last night and the night before that. Fill that flask up, baby, get dressed up. Cigarettes, check, and weed, check. Bike out into black night, the numb suck of cruising through cold to whichever warm destination. To the bar, where you’re a regular, and your regular notoriety has earned you a spot in the “we’ll turn a blind eye to the fact that she’s pouring her own drinks from a pint of Ancient Age in her bag” pantheon. Get googly eyed shit faced drunk. Dance on those mother fucking tables like you mean it. Shake that nasty ass.
Members of the Oakland Gutteratti know how to get into all the best shows for free, too. It’s a long process of befriending every possible musician, every single show promoter, each different door man at every warehouse party, be it through the camaraderie of shared beers or the unbashful batting of eyelashes. And if you’re a girl, all your cocaine should be free, too. It should be snorted in the bathrooms of the boys whom you’re still deciding whether or not to stay up all night with and go to bed with a limp dick in hand. If you’re a boy, well, let’s just say, try not to blow it by getting too fucked up and forgetting to go to sleep before work the next day. Regardless, hit up at least 3 parties tonight and don’t go to bed before 3:30 am, unless, of course, nobody ever taught you how to party right. Try to make sure you fall asleep face down on the couch or bed of someone you’re vaguely friends with, and wake up with at least 3 new friend requests on Facebook.
Profess for yourself an affinity for the arts. Increase your cachet in the local party scene by contributing to it effortlessly through the I-could-do-it-in-my-sleep art forms of DJing, drawing, tattooing, sewing, writing or making music. Nothing too involved or esoteric, but definitely something of the low brow “Fuck Art, Let’s Dance” variety. Be all about pop culture. Steal things. Be the black sheep of the family. Have a heavily censored relationship with your mother, and, if you’re local, make sure that the majority of contact with your family revolves around laundry and groceries. If your family isn’t local, it’s a good idea to have an easily manipulated friend with a car to fill the laundry and groceries hole, or maybe just a car.
All outlooks on life and everything in it are characterized by an acute inability to give a fuck. This means that every waking thought is tinged with a rather sweet flavor of carefree nihilism and careening towards death. Because of this, drunk driving, ruthless sexting, practicing promiscuity, professional shit talking, and being hung over in the most public and disgusting ways possible are all filed under “activities to do while not giving a fuck.” All other free time for the Oakland Gutteratti is mostly filled with thrifting, crafting, browsing through obscure music blogs and generally filling one’s mind and closet with the esoteric minutiae of Internet fuelled party babble. The party, clearly, being the epicenter of existence and the ne plus ultra of your experience among the Gutteratti of Oakland. And fun, all the time, in its various incarnations, too.
So, yeah, pretty much if I just described you to a tee – well, my friend, I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow night at that party at that place in West Oakland, or maybe that bar, or whatever, just text me and we’ll hang out soon. If it’s not you – hah, you definitely have your work cut out for you. We’re pretty easy to find, though, and we’re pretty easy to befriend. Come on, just quit your job and kick it for life.