The other day on the commute I was stuck in traffic behind a minivan whose vanity plate was a near vowel-less transcription of the name “JOHNNY ROTTEN.” The van appeared to be driven by a prosperous fellow in early middle age sporting a closed-back Yankees cap. I tried to take a picture, but cell phone cameras remain a fur piece fum plumb. Haw!
Am occasionally troubled by the fact that I look like somebody’s old uncle, but with tattoos. I was in line at the taqueria behind somebody who looked like somebody’s dad who helps out by volunteering to coach the JV girls basketball team, except he was also heavily tattooed. When I saw him full on, he was wearing a ball cap that said, “punk rock.” I know a few old time original 1967 hippies. They have acheived a certain dignity, but old punks seem to be experiencing middle aged geekiness. This is our punishment for being mean to old hippies when we were young. Come to think of it, I used to sneer at old greasers when I was a young freak, circa 1970.