So I had a buddy back in college who was the punkest punk rocker. When he went to bed at night, he had punk rock sheets and punk rock pajamas and punk rock dreams. In the morning, he ate punk rock flakes right out of the box, pouring the milk right in and sloshing it around, super-punk like. You could see that he was the punkest punk from hundreds of yards away, just a punk rock speck out on the horizon. There were Jewish Rabbis who argued about when the day ended and when night began, and they decided that it was night at the moment when you could no longer see just how punk rock my buddy Scott was. That's how punk rock he was.
Then for unknown reasons, maybe because of Scott's unprecedented punkness, everyone wanted to be punk rock. Ramone's t-shirts proliferated like ragweed. The surface of the Earth everywhere became dimpled from all the pogo dancing, the impact of hundreds of thousands of engineer's boots and black Chuck Taylors. Black Flag tattoos spread like some kind of awful, highly infectious skin disease. Suburban girls who used to smell like Irish Spring soap cut their hair in brutal shapes and smoked clove cigarettes. You'd see mosh pits form spontaneously at the student bookstore, stage-diving during chapel, crowd surfing during philosophy lectures. When you closed your eyes, you saw black stovepipe jeans and motorcycle jackets and mohawks and spikey dog collars and tartan plaid on the backs of your eyelids, it was like a vision burned into your retinas.
I remember thinking, "Now that everyone is so punk rock, I wonder what Scott will do to continue being the punkest punk rocker. He'll probably do something really crazy, like get a mullet and wear a leisure suit, or at least some polyester bellbottoms, and he'll start listening exclusively to heinous Canadian bands like April Wine and Chiliwack and Moxxy Fruvous." And that's more or less what he did. I saw him the next day at the student union, and he had these big white mitts on, and floppy white bunny ears with pink interiors, and the most godawful pair of hiphuggers you ever saw, and he was loudly singing all the lyrics to Rush's "2112." Everyone hated him for being so much more punk rock than they could ever hope to be.
I bring this all up because I'm pretty sure that wherever Scott is today, he's been riding an Italian fixie with track drops and handgrips dappled with stars and hearts, wearing a huge Bailey Works mess bag and kicking it in vintage Adidas Varsities, and now that all the kids are doing this, Scott is undoubtedly wearing corderoys and tweed and running a mid-80s Nishiki with dove bars and a kid's trail-a-bike (just because it looks cool), a Wald wire basket, and a three-speed Sturmey-Archer.
I want to be like Scott. I imagine you do too. Who doesn't want to be the punkest punk?
So I bought a handelbar basket today. You should too.
An Amusement & Diversion for The Genteel Cyclist. Daily.