I realized a few years ago that I'm not punk rock — I'm just cranky. I'm not cranky in a good way either. I'm nearing Travis Bickle at times: a tightly wound, solitary man who has one foot in the grave. Working late at night and staying up even later will do that to you. It will turn you into a machine who is working a machine.
But that isn't punk rock. That's just being neurotic — and you wouldn't say Woody Allen is punk rock, would you? I thought not.
Punk rock is what you see in this montage. The song, by the way, is "We're desperate" by X. This pretty much showcases what is punk rock. It's alcoholic girls who piss in an alleyway then offer you sex right then and there. It's strung out sons of guns who thrash uncontrollably and get their faces bashed in by a flailing fist. It's Listerine and dirty needles littered in a condemned apartment, acknowledging that your life is a mess — and yet confronted by a hope that there's something greater. That, my friends, is punk rock.
I realized long ago that it's not for me. There is no chance in hell that my nocturnal caffeinated twitches will ever meet the fury of raw and real punk rock. Yes, I may be on the cusp of a blow-out at times, but I definitely am not punk rock.
There's not very much punk rock nowadays. Every so often, though, you'll see it in some decrepit concert hall in skid row.
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