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Punks and Hippies in NYC

This is the moment that the two sides come together, for one brief moment, and the moment goes on.  And it goes on.  This begins with a night spent listening to the Jesus and Mary Chain, and ends somewhere on the other side of cowpunk revivals.  This is the moment where the smell of sage and mesquite mix with bus fumes in a testimony to how sweet love can be, and how short the moment is.  This is the moment when the best hotels in Manhattan are all playing the same song at the same time, because someone somewhere decided that the world should play their song at some moment.

This is a story of awkward love in an awkward time, when he was somewhere between bare feet and boots, and she was somewhere in between a tie-dyed decor and a black fingernail.  This is the part of the story where every detail was remembered, but in a different order, and without a sense of balance.  This is the moment when he should have been wearing boots, and should have seen the other punker kid about to step on him.  This is the moment when she decided to make fun of the Grateful Dead girl in her head, while she moved to the Isadora Duncan goth revival.

This is the moment when they both forget the movie song, and the time was wrong, the time was wrong.  This is not an anthem for a new generation, and it’s not an anthem that drips of sentimentality for a generation that passed into the uneasy zone where signs of middle age start to show up whenever the seasons change again.  This is the moment when the boy remembers the girl, when the punk rockers in the city and the hippies in the desert have moved on and become other versions of themselves, stuck somewhere between desire and breathing, and unstuck in some other place that we, the mortals, can never reach.

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