“Uncle Matt’s music,” which as far as Austin is concerned is one conjoined phrase and a genre in itself, refers to Rube, the latest album from my brother-in-law Matt King. We both like Uncle Matt’s music. But, Austin’s fandom borders on obsession, to the point where I’m concerned that he may one day boil Matt’s rabbit.

I absolutely love that CD. But we listen to it all. The. Fucking. Time.

“I don’t want to listen to Uncle Matt’s music right now. If I listen too much to it, I’ll become totally desensitized to its awesomeness and will begin to resent it in the way I resent the green onions in the fridge, which have become a pile of decomposed, fetid stank.”

“Oh,” Austin replied. “Then I want to listen to punk rock.”

It’s moments like this that warm my heart. Kids are amazing because they’re like little create-your-own-minion kits. Even if nobody likes what you’re into, you can totally add new followers to the cause by brainwashing your children. I’ve explained to Austin the differences between pop, general rock, punk, ska, rockabilly, and Daddy’s favorite subgenre, Celtic punk. For those of you who are uncultured, that last contains Flogging Molly, Dropkick Murphys, and The Pogues. At my wedding, some of my friends and I did an impromptu jig in formalwear to The Pogues’ “Living in a World Without Her” and hence got odd stares for the rest of the night.

“Do you know The Goops?” I asked from the driver’s seat.

“No.”

“The Goops are way cool,” I told him, and started their self-titled album on my iPod.

Time passed. “You like this?”

“Yeah.”

“I love punk bands with girl singers,” I told him. “Girls should sing punk more. Do you know any other punk bands with girl singers?”

He nodded in the rear-view mirror. “Tilt.”

“Good boy.”

I had forgotten how cool The Goops were. They broke up, regrettably, back in the late 90s. I discovered The Goops when they opened for Samiam, and I discovered Samiam when they opened for Bad Religion. The Goops ended up doing a mini-tour with a rockabilly band called Buzzsaw and I went to see them in four cities. At the time, I liked to think I was working on some sort of punk documentary, so I kept trying to get them to let me interview them on my old gigantic VHS camcorder. They finally relented and I spent a few hours after a show hanging out with them until dawn in their motel room. Ah, The Goops.

“The Goops. The Goops. I like that name,” said Austin from the back seat.

“High five for The Goops,” I said, offering my hand. He hit it.

I was totally geeking out, so I made a mental note to listen to The Goops during my workout the next day. It would give me punk rock power, which means that although you may not set any records, you’re still really bad ass.

When I got home, I decided to look up The Goops, to see if they were still floating around cyberspace. Google revealed surprisingly little. Nada on Twitter. But on Facebook, I saw that there was an Eleanor Whitledge. Eleanor is super awesome. She threw up on Iggy Pop, then wrote a song about it.

Her avatar was of an inanimate object, like a UFO parked at a train station. So I messaged her: “You’re not by any chance the Eleanor who was in the band The Goops, are you?”

And the answer was, “Yes. I am she.”

So now, I think she’s totally bullshitting me because neglecting that I still haven’t gotten a response to my gushing response, that communique isn’t very punk rock at all. Such grammatically correct brevity. No cigarette burns on the email. No mention of huffing gas. I have my doubts that this is indeed the woman who sang, Passing dogs take pees on me / This really is the life for me.

Hell, it’s been ten years. My orange hair has grown out. The smoke smell has finally left my clothes. Maybe The Goops have gotten all civilized. Maybe they’re now tax assessors or chicken farmers. All respectable and possibly covered in white bird shit. With like, dental insurance.

I have no tattoos to make me regret the impetuosity of those younger days. Hair goes back to normal. My Pennywise tour shirt gets used to wax the car.

Okay, fine. The minivan.