Punk’s Not Dead — It Just Has a Mortgage Now

 When I was a kid, I thought adults had it all wrong. Ties? Cubicles? Early bedtimes? No thanks. I swore I'd stay wild forever, sneer firmly in place, middle finger raised at anything that even smelled like "normal."

Fast forward a couple decades, and here I am — a little more creaky, a lot more caffeinated — but guess what? Still punk. Just with slightly better dental insurance.

Punk isn’t about age. It’s not about how many tattoos you can cram onto one bicep (though shoutout to anyone still adding to their sleeve at 50). Punk is about refusing to roll over and accept a life you don’t believe in. It’s about making noise, whether you’re thrashing in a garage band or just refusing to let life dull your sharp edges.

Sure, I yell at clouds now and think 9:30 PM is a wild bedtime. But I still crank The Clash at full volume. I still refuse to take crap from people who think “growing up” means giving up who you are. I still believe in loud music, cheap coffee, DIY everything, and giving the finger to conformity.

So if you’re reading this and wondering if you’re “too old” for punk — newsflash:
You’re not. You’re exactly what punk looks like now.
Wrinkles, gray hair, orthopedic sneakers and all. Own it.

Because at the end of the day:
Punk’s not just a sound. It’s a stubborn, glorious refusal.
And my dad (and probably yours) is still living proof.

Stay loud, stay weird,
- M.D.S.P.

Easter in the Wasteland (or: Resurrection Is Rebellion)

 Another Easter rolls around. The candy aisles are wiped out, plastic grass litters every living room, and pastel suits march their way into churches with polished smiles. It's the season of “rebirth,” they say—of resurrection and fresh starts. But for those of us still flying the black flag, still grinding chords in garage basements and marching in boots instead of pews, the question is this: What the hell does Easter mean to us?

Let’s be real—most of what passes for Easter these days is corporate camouflage. Hollow chocolate bunnies mass-produced by the same machine that crushes the working class Monday through Friday. Jesus gets wheeled out like a seasonal mascot, right next to the Easter Bunny, so corporations can sell you crosses and Cadbury in one tidy transaction.

But if you dig past the plastic, there’s something in the bones of this day that hits different when you’ve spent time living outside the margins. Resurrection? That’s rebellion in disguise. Rising from the ashes? That’s the anthem of every punk who’s ever been kicked down and gotten back up.

We don’t need a miracle from above—we make our own. Every time we patch up a busted amp, pick up a friend who’s struggling, feed our community when the state won’t, that’s resurrection. That’s punk.

Easter is about smashing the old order. Jesus flipped tables, remember? He challenged empire, sided with the poor, and paid the price for it. You don’t have to believe in divinity to see the punk in that story. He wasn't rolling with the Romans—he was calling out the hypocrites, the power-hungry, the ones using God as a bludgeon. Sound familiar?

So this Easter, light a candle or burn a flag. Paint eggs or paint a protest sign. Whatever you do, make it mean something. Celebrate the power of community, of resistance, of starting again in a world that constantly tries to break you.

Resurrection isn’t a Hallmark card. It’s showing up when the world says stay down. It’s screaming your truth into a mic that barely works. It’s loving fiercely in a system built to divide.

This Easter, let’s rise—not because tradition tells us to, but because we refuse to stay buried.

Stay loud. Stay free.
– Dad’s Still Punk