Dear James: I'm Not Very Punk Rock

The Atlantic

03-06-2025

Editor's Note: Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers' questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at [e-mail].
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Dear James,
I'm not very punk rock. Not even a little. I'm well into middle age and experiencing my first taste of the many small indignities sure to come. I wear sensible shoes with gel insoles scientifically designed to relieve the pain and discomfort of plantar fasciitis. I have long and detailed conversations about insurance.
And yet, in my heart, I believe that all is mendacity. That virtue is impossible. That the system crushes us all beneath its relentless wheel. I tell hilarious jokes about the cruel pointlessness of existence and receive only blank stares in return. If the world were to perish in flames, I'm pretty sure it would be no more than it deserved.
So my question to you is simple: Is this any way to live?
Dear Reader,
You are punk rock to the tips of your gel-cushioned toes, my friend. Don't worry about that. I'm sorry that nobody's digging your nihilistic humor. Maybe work on your material a bit, soften the edges, angle it a touch toward the mainstream? Day-to-day discourse, in my experience, can absorb a remarkable amount of savage absurdism, gags about doom, and so on (this stuff is highly relatable!)—as long as you don't come off as aggressive or out of your mind. As long as you don't come off too punk rock.
To your larger point: How are we to live, make our way, proceed in the world when so much of said world is clearly an evil farce? (Huge pause while advice columnist slurps his coffee, stares out the window, and considers the question.) The punk rockers were not the first to have this insight, of course: The poets and the prophets have always known it. No one is more punk rock than the unknown author of Ecclesiastes. Or John Donne. Or Sylvia Plath. Or the author(s) of the Psalms, in certain moods.
The trick, I think, is to use this world-withering vision as a stimulant rather than as a philosophical end point. Don't let it shut you down; let it wake you up. Use it to sharpen your senses and file your encounters to a keen edge. As in: It's all bollocks and everyone dies, but wow, this bag of Dunkin' Donuts Snackin' Bacon tastes amazing. Or: It's all bollocks and everyone dies, so why don't I help this elderly person with her shopping? Use it, this flame of disgust, to refine your language!
Regarding bands, I have one word for you: Godflesh. (Cue sound of Godflesh fans across America falling to their knees in grateful assent.) It's all there. The beauty, the horror, the low end that purges your bowels, the guitar tone that scrapes the plaque from your heart. Start with Hymns.
James
Dear James,
Dear Reader,
The last great movie I saw was Friendship. Profoundly awkward person (Tim Robinson) is absorbed at dizzying speed into charmed friend circle of smooth bro (Paul Rudd) and then—even more abruptly—rejected. At which point he shouts, in despair, 'You made me feel too free! You accepted me too quickly!' Genius.
Feet up in the back row,
James