We all know that American rock music hasn't exactly matured from punk/new wave ever since it got in the mainstream. Because of punk we've got expensive Hot Topic stores where anyone from preteen kids to suburban moms buy certain risque fashions that were all the rage in 1979 or later, and were often an inventive technique of poor urban kids to make themselves look less decrepit. 25 years after the fact we've still got kids with hair like Sid Vicious, girls with makeup like Siouxsie, dresses like Nancy Spungen's, and slovenly bourgeoisis numb-nuts who feel that being "punk" means being piggish and violent and ugly.

Reading this book makes one come to the conclusion that the punk rockers were nasty, thuggish, naive people who took sex and drugs to a murderous extreme. This book certainly doesn't talk about the creativity of these people. It's like a collection of Enquirer articles unedited, and though amusing it is very saddening to read of the depths of human suffering, and it's almost a celebration of that. Why do we need this? People can barely deal with their own issues as it is.