A sure sign that punk is dead

As I was strolling back from the gym today down the main drag of the city square I call home, I noticed a very proletarian-British looking fellow with a black pompadour/mohawk, black leather jacket, jeans, black boots, and sundry steel studs. He so could have come from Manchester, England. Across the street from both of us is my favorite hipster coffeeshop, which is also frequented by punks, lesbians, and moms. Up the street a bit is the coffee shop recently rated by Zagat (and, judging from the big sign in their window, quite shocked by having been rated) where the hippies imbibe.

But wouldn't you know it, Johnny Rotten hung a left and stepped right into Starbucks.