Punk was always dead

Well, after a few months, anyway. But what was punk rock? Another good question: does this site have editors?

The article links to several newspapers from 1977, worrying about Western Civilization, making the usual contemptuous bleats; the critics sounded like Boomers who grew up with the Stones and Beatles and had come to that "kids these days with their unlistenable drivel" moment in life so ably described by Abe Simpson.

This article lumps in the Sex Pistols with the Talking Heads, calling both garbage. Time has not validated the judgment. But most of punk was bad. It probably had the highest percentage of bad music since the late 60s, when various styles - psychodelic, garage, toytown - competed to turn out C-grade tripe. I can't tell you how many "Lost 45s" compilations I've heard that suggest the songs were not lost, but buried in a landfill like so many ET Atari cartridges.

What was punk rock? A brief thrashing spasm for spotty people who enjoyed banging heads in a mosh pit, with a few good songs. But what to wear, what to wear? Not to worry: there were guides.

APP Peeple, the app that lets you rate other human beings as if they were roach-infested motels, has repositioned itself to address the concerns of the haters. Daily Dot:

So every review of everyone will be awesome? The Daily Dot story has a clip of a YouTube video, since yanked, which seems to suggest the app was also intended to illuminate the sketchy side of individuals as well. In any case:

Not exactly offline; there's a signup page for the 2.0 version, and it says "Join the positive revolution."

WHATEVER If you're wondering if anyone has feedback on the gun-control op-ed that ran in today's paper, there are 900 comments already. This section caught my eye:

Yes, that certainly conforms with what I saw growing up; when I asked Dad why he had a rifle, I expected to hear "for deer season, of course," but his lower lip trembled and he said he'd been feeling so afraid since he saw that coffee commercial with Mrs. Olson. It's the richest kind, she said. I fear I'm not good enough to drink it. So out came the rifle and down went Bambi.