John Jeremiah Sullivan - Pulphead: Essays

For M. and J. and M.J.

And for Pee Wee (19882007)

Good-by now, rum friends, and best wishes.

You got a good mag (like the pulp-heads say)

NORMAN MAILER , letter of resignation (rescinded), 1960

CONTENTS

UPON THIS ROCK

It is wrong to boast, but in the beginning, my plan was perfect. I was assigned to cover the Cross-Over Festival in Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri, three days of the top Christian bands and their backers at some isolated Midwestern fairground. Id stand at the edge of the crowd and take notes on the scene, chat up the occasional audience member (Whats harderhomeschooling or regular schooling?), then flash my pass to get backstage, where Id rap with the artists themselves. The singer could feed me his bit about how all music glorifies Him, when its performed with a loving spirit, and Id jot down every tenth word, inwardly smiling. Later that night I might sneak some hooch in my rental car and invite myself to lie with a prayer group by their fire, for the fellowship of it. Fly home, stir in statistics. Paycheck.

But as my breakfast-time mantra says, I am a professional. And they dont give out awards for that sort of toe-tap foolishness. I wanted to know what these people are, who claim to love this music, who drive hundreds of miles, traversing states, to hear it live. Then it came, my epiphany: I would go with them. Or rather, they would come with me. I would rent a van, a plush one, and we would travel there together, I and three or four hard-core buffs, all the way from the East Coast to the implausibly named Lake of the Ozarks. Wed talk through the night, theyd proselytize at me, and Id keep my little tape machine working all the while. Somehow I knew wed grow to like and pity one another. What a story that would makefor future generations.

The only remaining question was: How to recruit the willing? But it was hardly even a question, because everyone knows that damaged types who are down for whatevers clever gather in chat rooms every night. And among the Jesusy, theres plenty who are super fd up. He preferred it that way, evidently.

So I published my invitation, anonymously, at youthontherock.com, and on two Internet forums devoted to the good-looking Christian pop-punk band Relient K, which had been booked to appear at Cross-Over. I pictured that guy or girl out there whod been dreaming in an attic room of seeing, with his or her own eyes, the men of Relient K perform their song Gibberish from Two Lefts Dont Make a Right But Three Do. How could he or she get there, though? Gas prices wont drop, and Relient K never plays north Florida. Please, Lord, make it happen. Suddenly, here my posting came, like a great light. We could help each other. Im looking for a few serious fans of Christian rock to ride to the festival with me, I wrote. Male/female doesnt matter, though you shouldnt be older than, say, 28, since Im looking at this primarily as a youth phenomenon.

They seem like harmless words. Turns out, though, I had failed to grasp how youth the phenomenon is. Most of the people hanging out in these chat rooms were teens, and I dont mean nineteen, either, I mean fourteen. Some of them, I was about to learn, were mere tweens. I had just traipsed out onto the World Wide Web and asked a bunch of twelve-year-old Christians if they wanted to come for a ride in my van.

It wasnt long before the children rounded on me. Nice job cutting off your email address, wrote mathgeek29, in a tone that seemed not at all Christlike. I doubt if anybody would give a full set of contact information to some complete stranger on the Internet Arent there any Christian teens in Manhattan who would be willing to do this?

A few of the youths were indeed credulous. Riathamus said, i am 14 and live in indiana plus my parents might not let me considering it is a stranger over the Internet. but that would really be awsome. A girl by the name of LilLoser even tried to be a friend:

I doubt my parents would allow their baby girl to go with some guy they dont and I dont know except through email, especially for the amount of time youre asking and like driving around everywhere with ya Im not saying youre a creepy petifile, lol, but i just dont think youll get too many people interested cuz like i said, it spells out creepy but heygood luck to you in your questy missiony thing. lol.

The luck that she wished me I sought in vain. The Christians stopped chatting with me and started chatting among themselves, warning one another about me. Finally one poster on the official Relient K site hissed at the others to stay away from my scheme, as I was in all likelihood a 40 year old kidnapper. Soon I logged on and found that the moderators of the site had removed my post and its lengthening thread of accusations altogether, offering no explanation. Doubtless at that moment they were faxing alerts to a network of moms. I recoiled in dread. I called my lawyer, in Boston, who told me to stop using computers (his plural).

In the end, the experience inspired in me a distaste for the whole Cross-Over Festival as a subject, and I resolved to refuse the assignment. I withdrew.

The problem with a flash mag like the Gentlemens Quarterly is that theres always some overachieving assistant editor, sometimes called Greg, whom the world hasnt beaten down yet, and who, when you phone him, out of courtesy, just to let him know that the Cross-Over thing fell through and that youll be in touch when you figure out what to do next, hops on that mystical boon the Internet and finds out that the festival you were planning to attend was in fact not the biggest one in the country, as youd alleged. The biggest one in the countryindeed, in Christendomis the Creation Festival, inaugurated in 1979, a veritable Godstock. And it happens not in Missouri but in ruralmost Pennsylvania, in a green valley, on a farm called Agape. This festival did not end a month ago; it starts the day after tomorrow. Already they are assembling, many tens of thousands strong. Good luck to you in your questy missiony thing.

I had one demand: that I not be made to camp. Id have some sort of vehicle with a mattress in it, one of these pop-ups, maybe. Right, said Greg. Heres the deal. Ive called around. There are no vans left within a hundred miles of Philly. We got you an RV, though. Its a twenty-nine-footer. Once I reached the place, we agreed (or he led me to think he agreed), I would certainly be able to downgrade to something more manageable.

The reason twenty-nine feet is such a common length for RVs, I presume, is that once a vehicle gets much longer, you need a special permit to drive it. That would mean forms and fees, possibly even background checks. But show up at any RV joint with your thigh stumps lashed to a skateboard, crazily waving your hooks-for-hands, screaming you want that twenty-nine-footer out back for a trip to you aint sayin where, and all they want to know is: Credit or debit, tiny sir?

Two days later, I stood in a parking lot, suitcase at my feet. Debbie came toward me. Her face was as sweet as a birthday cake beneath spray-hardened bangs. She raised a powerful arm and pointed, before either of us spoke. She pointed at a vehicle that looked like something the ancient Egyptians might have left behind in the desert.

Oh, hi, there, I said. Listen, all I need is, like, a camper van or whatever. Its just me, and Im going five hundred miles

She considered me. Where ya headed?

To this thing called Creation. Its, like, a Christian-rock festival.

You and everybody! she said. The people who got our vans are going to that same thing. Theres a bunch o ya.