"This sucks," says Brown. "This thing's got bird shit all over it." He throws his trash back onto the ground. The rest of the group resign themselves to the curb. Amidst all of this clumsy do-gooding, something is becoming very clear: The Monarques are very bad at being good.
Grumdahl looks up at me. "I'll level with you," he says. "I'm a pastor's kid. My whole life has been about being bad and getting away with it. Being good just doesn't come naturally to me."
"But guys, we must uphold our search for something good and moral and...ah, screw it. Let's just go to Sex World": Monarques
And that's when it hits me. These Monarques were not sent to us from the heavens to cast light into the dirty shadows of our music scene. There is no divine right when it comes to rock 'n' roll. These kings are the same as we are--they're plebes, dorks even (albeit handsome dorks) who rose from humble beginnings to rule us as only a band of the people can. They're no better than us morally, they're just in a much better band--and for that, we love them. So throw down your rubble and rejoice, Monarques, for there is no need to further prove your goodness. You are the best.
"Now you're talkin'," says Grumdahl, dragging me into their nearby van. "Now let's shotgun some beers and hit the booths at Sex World."