How long has it been since your last confession?
Uh, what's today? Let me see . . . I guess that makes it . . . two . . . divide by three . . . carry the four . . . uh, it's been about 24 years, 6 months, 25 days, 11 hours, 37 minutes and 16 seconds.
I've seen worse. Tell me, child, what sins do you have to repent before God?
Well, there was the dead hooker in Reno and the Girl Scout troop I ran over after taking blotter acid, stealing a riding lawn mower and joy riding through a Piggly Wiggly. But none of that is why I'm here. I'm here because I have a burden on my soul that I can't hold anymore.
What brought on this sudden bout of internal conflict?
I . . . I . . . have a weakness.
Pray tell, what is this weakness, dear boy?
Um . . . I don't mind pop-punk.
You'll have to speak up. There is no reason for shame in the house of the Lord.
(Cough.) I don't mind pop-punk.
I see. And how long has this devilish deficiency leeched on your soul?
It started with Green Day. I was 14 and had hardly been kissed . . . at least where I wanted to be. That's when Dookie came out and took a big, steaming shit on my Def Leppard and Skid Row tapes. I could relate to "Longview" and "Welcome to Paradise." I sang "Basket Case" sitting on the bench during the 1994 La Pine High School basketball season -- goooooo, Hawks! Watching the tube but nothing's on, wrestling Rosy Palmer until masturbation lost its fun -- those were topics that struck a chord.
You do realize that "jerking the rosary" is a filthy habit of Satan and a mortal sin?
I was, um, speaking metaphorically.
Just kidding. I choke the chicken at least thrice daily. Sorry I interrupted. Go ahead.
Anyway, I know I'm supposed to turn up my nose at Green Day and Blink-182 and every other pop-punk band. They are sellouts, corporate pawns, boy bands. I'm not supposed to like Bad Religion or NOFX, either. But of course I do. I'm supposed to worship the Stooges and the Sex Pistols and hundreds of "real" punk bands nobody's heard of. I'm sure they're all jim-dandy, but how the fuck is an Oregon farm boy or a Mesa short-order cook supposed to really relate to "God Save the Queen"?
I can appreciate the music and the theme of battling institutional oppression. And I even know the answer to "Historical Significance" for $500, Alex, but do you see any bangers and mash around here? Nobody actually thinks Mr. Bean is funny. Would I ever pick up the phone if London were calling? Not unless Ginger Spice was on the other end. Jesus Christ, Sid Vicious died before I was even born.
There's no reason to drag the Big Guy's kid into this. Besides, JC would have loved "Anarchy in the U.K." and "I Wanna Be Your Dog," because the music spoke to the outcasts of society, who were his people.
Maybe that's the problem. Sure, I hated third-period algebra, too, but I was never compelled to smoke Camels during wood shop. I didn't get picked on much. I didn't own a torn jean jacket, let alone any Misfits patches to sew onto it. I couldn't skateboard. I didn't have a Mohawk. I was the co-captain of the football team. Student body president. I even dated a cheerleader.
Preppie little bitch.
I'm sorry, what?
Just clearing my throat. You have clearly strayed from the righteous path. Perhaps if you walked a mile in the leper's shoes or consorted with prostitutes, as the Messiah did, you could appreciate pop-punk for what it is: fodder for the Philistines.
I disagree. You don't have to be suicidal to feel Elliott Smith's pain. You don't have to be a carnie to enjoy the Scorpions. Besides, isn't every band merely piecing together fragments of all those that came before? Wouldn't everyone influenced by the Ramones and the Rolling Stones have elements of pop and punk in their music? Sure, I like London Calling and Never Mind the Bollocks, but you don't have a soul if you can't shout along with the Dropkick Murphys or hum that "Swing, Swing" song by the All-American Rejects.
Well, actually, I'm more of a Dashboard Confessional fan myself. Chris Carraba has the face of a wee angel, the voice of a heavenly choir and the ass of a 12-year-old boy. I mean, pop-punk is sweet and tantalizing and appealing, but so were the apples in the Garden of Eden. Good Charlotte and New Found Glory going on the Honda Civic tour is not punk rock. Selling Adidas is not punk rock. Appearing on TRL without head-butting somebody or breaking a bottle or spitting on the audience is not punk rock. Punk is about flipping proper society on its butt, then kicking it while it's down.
Point well taken. Do I respect artists with principles? Hellfuckingyeah. But who am I and who are you to be so self-righteous? All of us who aren't either Republicans or vegan ecoterrorists are the Middle America we scorn. You drive a Civic. You own some Adidas, you eat at McDonald's, you watch Steven Seagal movies, your ironic tee shirt was made by sweat-shop workers in Senegal and, yes, Che Guevara, you know the words to "Ice Ice Baby" just like the rest of us.
There is much bitterness within your soul, dear child. Give that pain to Jesus and allow your contrition to be your salvation. Besides, real punk bands have integrity.
Have you seen the Sex Pistols lately? They're playing Atlantic City casinos. Iggy Pop is doing duets with Sum 41. Black Flag's Henry Rollins has appeared in Charlie Sheen and Keanu Reeves movies. Rancid founder Tim Armstrong reportedly agreed to put the Transplants' "Diamonds and Guns" in an Herbal Essence commercial. There's your totally organic experience.
My sweet, conflicted lamb. The Pistols, the Clash and the Ramones aren't the only bands around. Have you ever heard of the Buzzcocks or the Circle Jerks? Punk rock catches the tail of the disenchanted and takes them for a ride on all of their own anger and energy and anxiety and uncertainty. Punk is subversive and dangerous. Pop-punk is suburban and harmless.
Okay, so pop-punkers aren't chewing glass and burning flags and tagging police cars. Blink-182's "First Date" could still have as much impact as the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" while using more than five words and two chords. The Clash made biting political statements, but also "Rock the Casbah."
Fair enough. You've confessed your guilt and aired your sins before God, and that's what matters. Consider the parable of the Prodigal Son. The Lord will welcome you home. Even if you have hopelessly shitty taste, Mr. Iscariot.
I appreciate your counsel, Padre. This has been very cathartic.
Indeed. Now may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father (Iggy), the Son (Joey) and the Holy Spirit (Joe). As penance, say 12 Our Fathers and 12 Hail Marys . . . and for chrissakes, listen to some Dead Kennedys.
Thank you, Father. I will.
