The democracy of sticker slapping
and a punk rock trust fall
The glass doors at Evel Pie, a pizza shop on Fremont Street in Las Vegas, are covered in stickers. If you didn’t know the doors were there, you might even miss them; the only thing that might tip you off is the steady stream of people in punk attire flowing in and out. The sticker camo is a direct rejection of the upscale Strip-style Vegas storefront designed to tempt hungry pedestrians, and this shop doesn’t need them anyway. There’s plenty of business to be had, as evidenced by the line of people stretching from the register past the bathrooms and into the back patio, where groups of new and old friends laugh loudly and mix among wooden picnic tables.
Inside, the shop looks like so many places I’ve been to before, which is to say it is divey and warm and comfortable. The music is loud enough to enjoy but not overwhelming – the perfect playlist at the perfect volume. A faded sign hangs on the wall with the fossilized old prices for a slice or a shot of whisky (five and three dollars, respectively.) Just like the outside, every flat surface inside is covered with a collage of colors and shapes.
Eric and I find the end of the line next to a short, stickered glass partition separating the dining area from the kitchen. A few weeks ago I rushed to make hundreds of stickers for my feminist art project, Reclaim Fucking Everything, exactly for this moment. Eric pulls one out of his pocket and spots a small void among the chaos on the glass. He peels the back off and places it delicately, which is surprising for an act called sticker slapping.
There are many forms of social currency in this community: patches and pins, studs and sharpies, show flyers and set lists, tattoos and piercings, lighters and ashtrays – but perhaps the sticker is one of its most potent symbols. Stickers are cheap and easy to make, so there is limited risk and barrier to entry. But more than that, they signal inclusion, democracy, the blending of the individual and the communal, and the DIY spirit of punk rock. As a former marketer, I toyed with a few different ideas for getting the word out about my project, such as printing a zine or making buttons, but nothing felt more appropriate than designing stickers.
Now, seeing this small, glittery, pink piece of my identity displayed among the others at Evel Pie fills me with a rush I am not prepared for, one I’m only comfortable having in public like this because the environment is so inviting. I’ve been working tirelessly on this project for six months and the imposter syndrome is raging in my cells. Leaving its proxy behind on the glass as the line inches forward feels like an exciting release and a terrifying punk rock trust fall, all at once.
Over the years, I’ve observed a few unofficial etiquette rules when it comes to slapping your stickers on things: first, don’t be an asshole. Second, don’t dominate, make sure you’re giving everyone their fair spot. Third, don’t cover other stickers’ important info (addresses, band names, websites, et cetera.) Fourth, don’t bring one big branded sticker that you hope to put front and center because that is aggressively, offensively consumerist. No single message should be in our faces, demanding our attention at the expense of all the others.
Other than that, anything goes. Authenticity is encouraged, profanity is accepted, and irreverence is prized. When you slap a sticker on something, you are co-signing its inherent artistic worthiness whether you made it, paid a few bucks for it at a merch table, or got it for free. A surface covered by stickers is a symbol of this community’s equal, good faith give-and-take; it’s a billboard and a place to leave notes of love and empowerment. It’s silly, gross, dirty, subversive, offensive, encouraging, loud, busy, and messy, just like we are.
The further in line I get from my sticker, the less I can make out of it; its details blend in gloriously with the others, and my little glittery symbol becomes part of something bigger than itself. I still feel oddly apprehensive about leaving it there.
When we reach the girl at the register, I am surprised to see that the surface of her cash box is empty. I humble myself to ask her if I could put a sticker for my art project on it. It feels like my trust fall’s moment of truth - is my project worthy and up to the task? Is it punk enough? Am I? Do/will people even care?
Without hesitation, she smiles sweetly at me and quickly replies, “Of course, babe, stick it anywhere you want,” and then just continues with our order. And as if to signal her belief in the worthiness of whatever I’m hoping to claim space for – simply because I’m me, and simply because I’m here in this pizza shop – she doesn’t even ask to see it first. The fall is complete, and my trust has survived.
This gave me chills 🖤