This is a comment, slightly edited, that I made recently on Pertinacious Papist, which, as you may have gathered, is where I spend a great deal of time. It was not made on one of my more temperate days, so be forewarned. I offer it as one quite familiar with the cruel and indecent ravages visited upon innocence by contemporary culture:
Where, indeed, are the parents?
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This is precisely the thought that makes my blood pressure skyrocket when I listen to people on EWTN and Catholic radio, priests and bishops among them, burble about the smurfy wonderfulness of World Youth days, Kingdom Bound groovefests (which most of the Catholic kids in attendance don't even realize is not a Catholic event-- much less their parents vegetating at home), etc.
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As one who is old enough to remember from his college days the utter dishonesty of hippie, pseudo-hippie, and spoiled-suburban-schmuck-wants-to-be-a-hippie events, I can only goggle at the bubbleheadedness of people who think that they can awaken a love for Jesus in the hearts of soft, coddled, indulged little butterballs by delivering it in such cheesy wrappings.
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Back then, Woodstock and similar “hippie” festivals were supposed to be about love. They were really about getting laid as fast and as frequently as charm and biology allowed. If you were a teenage boy, drugs and alcohol were wonderful inventions in themselves, but their primary function was to facilitate getting a certified female on her back with a minimum of time and effort.
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Everyone was shocked, SHOCKED!, by the misogynistic humor of Andrew Dice Clay several years back. What these Wrong Way Corrigan bluenoses didn’t get was, Clay’s humor captures, with jewel-like clarity, the typical teenage boy’s view of typical teenage girls. IT’S THE TESTOSTERONE -- AND THE CULTURE -- STUPID!
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Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, no one parachuted 42nd street whores into Woodstock to service these pimply-faced omnivores. YOUR DAUGHTERS, AND YOUR PARENTS’ DAUGHTERS, DID THAT!
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The icon at contemporary Christian festivals may be Jesus instead of the Maharishi, and the message may be one of salvation instead of insemination, but if you don’t think plenty of the latter occurs along the way, I think you are sadly mistaken. The dress is just as provocative, if not more so, than it was then, and the fine young Christian teenage boys still have testosterone popping out of every pimple – you do the math.
Where, indeed, are the parents?
.
This is precisely the thought that makes my blood pressure skyrocket when I listen to people on EWTN and Catholic radio, priests and bishops among them, burble about the smurfy wonderfulness of World Youth days, Kingdom Bound groovefests (which most of the Catholic kids in attendance don't even realize is not a Catholic event-- much less their parents vegetating at home), etc.
.
As one who is old enough to remember from his college days the utter dishonesty of hippie, pseudo-hippie, and spoiled-suburban-schmuck-wants-to-be-a-hippie events, I can only goggle at the bubbleheadedness of people who think that they can awaken a love for Jesus in the hearts of soft, coddled, indulged little butterballs by delivering it in such cheesy wrappings.
.
Back then, Woodstock and similar “hippie” festivals were supposed to be about love. They were really about getting laid as fast and as frequently as charm and biology allowed. If you were a teenage boy, drugs and alcohol were wonderful inventions in themselves, but their primary function was to facilitate getting a certified female on her back with a minimum of time and effort.
.
Everyone was shocked, SHOCKED!, by the misogynistic humor of Andrew Dice Clay several years back. What these Wrong Way Corrigan bluenoses didn’t get was, Clay’s humor captures, with jewel-like clarity, the typical teenage boy’s view of typical teenage girls. IT’S THE TESTOSTERONE -- AND THE CULTURE -- STUPID!
.
Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, no one parachuted 42nd street whores into Woodstock to service these pimply-faced omnivores. YOUR DAUGHTERS, AND YOUR PARENTS’ DAUGHTERS, DID THAT!
.
The icon at contemporary Christian festivals may be Jesus instead of the Maharishi, and the message may be one of salvation instead of insemination, but if you don’t think plenty of the latter occurs along the way, I think you are sadly mistaken. The dress is just as provocative, if not more so, than it was then, and the fine young Christian teenage boys still have testosterone popping out of every pimple – you do the math.
.
Popular Christian music has become an industry. People get rich at it. It has prospered by aping its secular analogues, and plopping simplistic Christian themes into the mix. The result may not be the piggishness of Woodstock, but it ought not to be confused with heavenly choruses either.
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It is hard to believe, even now, that John Paul promoted these things. And that buffoons like Fr Stan, the rapper-priest, still peddle the myth that Christianity can be sustained by such freakiness. And that parents don’t have the common sense to see through the hype.
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Do they even want to?
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It is hard to believe, even now, that John Paul promoted these things. And that buffoons like Fr Stan, the rapper-priest, still peddle the myth that Christianity can be sustained by such freakiness. And that parents don’t have the common sense to see through the hype.
.
Do they even want to?
