Karl Klockars

Hell yeah, Britney. Hell yeah.

I can’t believe you’re more punk rock than I’ll ever be. I don’t ever expect to go apeshit and go skinhead and get all inked up on a whim. Most people are going to suggest that you’re completely looney-tunes, that you’ve gone animal crackers, just cuckoo for cocoa puffs.

They’re probably right. But regardless of that, I applaud your recent activities. Believe it or not, Britney – you might have just done the most original thing yet in your sad little career. All your other outbursts and pseudo-rebellion have been so trite, so cookie-cutter. It’s like even when you were trying to act out, someone was still pulling your strings, saying “hey, that ‘whoops we’re married’ thing worked for someone else…”

This is all you, Britney. Every last little bit. You have sole posession of the shaved-head freakout. And good for you. I want you to go balls-to-the-wall off the rails. Let’s not just fall down outside some posh Beverly Hills nightclub. I want Britney sightings outside some logger’s camp bar in Oregon. I want you to be seen drinking Wild Turkey and shooting out streetlights in Tucson.

I know you’re dying to get out of your overmanaged, PR-spun life. You don’t even recognize yourself in the mirror any more, do you? When you look at yourself do you see the sweet little 16 year old in there any more? Or are you starting to watch yourself fall apart, just like the rest of us?

Scary, isn’t it?

I can tell you’re pissed off. You’ve been dragged around by label reps and A&R guys and Disney drones and tour managers and press agents and not even a couple kids and some semblance of a husband could calm you down.All your attempts to be what we in the real world call a “normal person” have pissed in your face and you keep thinking it’s raining.

Then one day…one beautiful Friday, you stood up. You said “no.” Well, okay, maybe mumbled “no” over and over again. Those weren’t just clippers, those were blades to break the bonds of your oppressive entertainment pop overlords! Goddamn, Britney! You did it! You shocked the world – for real, this time!

Now, I’ve been hearing rumors that you’ve been sporting wigs and kinda pawning off the whole skinhead thing. Things like you’re still stumbling around Los Angeles, doing the whole superdiva act. Whatever. I choose not to believe these things, and I prefer to interject my own reality.

In my world, the new fuck-off hardcore Britney got into a van with three other inked up bad-attitude guys with minimal musical skills but a penchant for trouble. New punkrock Britney travels the country semi-anonymously, showing up to play shows in tiny clubs, bowling alleys, VFW Halls and small venues.

Say, a random Tuesday show at the Metro, unannounced of course, where you play after the Arrivals, and before Dillinger Four. Maybe you take everyone over to the Gingerman afterwards, where everyone proceeds to get standing-up falling-down wasted. It’s a new you, self-controlled in your complete abandon, a truly free Britney like never before.

And from there, more of the same. A stop at Detroit’s Magic Stick. CBGB’s is gone now, but you could certainly find another shithole bar in New York somewhere. You’re people who know people. Maybe a random appearance in Omaha. Another in Maine. Just go where you want, do what you want – ride this wave as far as you can. You’ve shattered a link of a chain that you’ve been forging since you were kicking it around on the Disney Channel, lo those many years ago.

You’re angry – you’re upset – and you’re tired of being dicked around by everyone, aren’t you? Do it. Hit the road. Maybe you’ll find something out there that you ain’t getting wrapped up in your mansions and nannies and paparazzi. Maybe you’ll figure out exactly who the hell you are.

Maybe you’ll make a goddamn fool of yourself and get a lot more regrettable tattoos. Maybe you’ll end up the female equivalent of GG Allin. Maybe nothing will happen at all. If you break down and call for your limousines and your Perrier and your Sidekick, at least you’ll know your place. And you tried something different, something for you.

Maybe you’ll even miss your kids. Who knows.

Now’s your time to get the hell out, Brit. The window is closing every day, though. And every wig purchase you make buries you deeper in your own self-made grave. You can run while you’ve still got a chance. Get in that cargo van. Make some loud, off-tempo, terrible music and just live a little bit.

And I’m pretty sure you’re crazy enough to do it.

Breaking news: You’re in rehab. Again. Way to go.