On Parenting
Late at night, past any teenager's Curfew, My friend Chris tells me that Punks don't have parents. People who were raised right Don't shoot off fireworks at shows, Destroy shopping carts, Weigh their jackets down with studs, Or listen to Minor Threat. The last time I saw my father, He punched me in the face. Super punx. I once heard a comedian say that He did not want to be The kind of dad that inspires art. My dad called my brother Jake a fag Back when he had pink hair, So Jake used it in a song and Stormed out of the auditorium Once he was done screaming along to the guitar. I can't remember how many times My mother threatened to leave when I was growing up, Or how many times I found myself on the floor under her, Learning just how sorry I was supposed to feel. Open handed blows only – She was the good parent, after all. My childhood taught me that No good came from talking to social workers. W...