Like it was that long ago, and like yeah, I guess you could say they are becoming increasingly endangered. The way it works, of course, and if it isn’t pretty, grow up because that’s the deal. They walk among us like bureaucrats of a bygone downtown, and like everyone, they, too, die alone. Their memories are presently drifting off and growing rosy, or perhaps less rosy, more black, more extreme gray scale. Maybe this is best thought of in a way like this: the last Polaroid is a Polaroid you have not taken, and you, too, cannot remember what it depicts. “Oh yeah,” says A Walking Billboard of Olde Newe Yorke, condescendingly, “it was cheap to live here back then but there were heroin dealers and like empty lots on Avenue A with intimidating looking thugs— oh but there was no law, and.” And what? Oh, of course “it wasn’t as cleaned up as it is now,” a specifically pre-Giuliani grin, a party you missed because you were too busy crapping your diaper or fuck, now maybe your mother was crapping hers, and what is Olde about it. I want someone to make a graffito about dancing about architecture, but I fear that that would not be enough for most of you’se. See, there I said “you’se” but I meant “authenticity.” Well, and the Billboard is now a decaying sack of “notions” and would not be caught dead in a dicey neighborhood (unless it is to visit you, the son, the daughter). We are, of course, our own goddamn billboards, dying alongside them: “Our” “Brooklyn” “co-opted” “gentrified” “and” “being” “choked” “by” “quotation” “marks.” Dick Clark is dead. Likewise the keyboardist of Men At Work, who was found a corpse in a Melbourne kitchen. Grunge knew that punk was dead; New Wave went back to France in the 60’s (mais pourquoi?); Hip-hop likes to feed on its fore-fathers/mothers; Raves are strickly worth it if your brain is being drenched in dopamine and serotonin; There will always be an annoying folk purist; Heavy Metal is “so hot right now” in “Greenpoint” which might mean that it, too, is doomed; and no one is sure what indie-rock is, what it was, what it’s supposed to be. This was not meant to be a polemic on popular music, but get the picture, you! No one ages gracefully, that’s the thing about the goddamn thing; time robs us of our swift recoveries, of some of our hair, or maybe taut skin; of freedoms we wasted our youths worshipping or at least tell ourselves to worship; of our friends and family and heroes and anti-heroes and also of an endless stream of motherfuckers we did not know or care to know. I have forgotten how to laugh today, but this does not bother me. I am not as broken as this discourse. I am not as bitter a pill, I promise. In my haste, today, I bought a Laurie Anderson record and was happy to do so. I, too, am a Walking Billboard. I, too, await elegy one day, and am inappropriately laughing at your funeral. I, too, inject false gravitas in the last line.