Some nostalgic hack recently blogged that guys with beards are not "punk".
I suppose I shouldn't really care, because "punk" really is a dated form of music. It is, after all, now nearly a third of a century since punk was popular. To put it in perspective, it's halfway back in time to the age of zoot suits and Sinatra. Real punk grew out of the rage of industrial city Gen-Xers in England, people my age who, other than language, had nothing in common with me or anyone else in Canada, especially the sons of physicians and the other poseurs who took it up. I suspect it was just one of the billion ways that guys have, over the years, tried to attract women without having to cruise around in papa's car with a fifty dollar bill, looking for the sort of romance that leaves really unpleasant litter in the parking lot near my house. I took the easy route: mastery of card tricks, a knack for Byron-style poetry, and the successful encouragement of friends to call me "Tripod". But those are the old days. I've got a great wife, three kids and a van with a great sound system. Barney Rubble is not my double. Some of us grow older gracefully, some of us don't.
The question du jour: Are 46-year-old lobbyists for Waste Management Corp and the Ontario Funderal Directors Association the sort of people who, back in the 80s punk heyday, would have punk cred? Or would they have been given a shitkicking and a spit shower by real punks?
The world is full of very strange beasties, I must say. And many of them are very funny, in a Roman Colliseum kind of way.