It's a long and boring drive home. Goodbye, mullets and mohawks. Goodbye, feral cats. Goodbye, carload of abductors and drunk punk in the street giving cops the finger. And goodbye, weather-beaten, one-room gym cracking at the corners with crazy, shrieking, bored-to-bursting kids. We wave wistfully as we drive away—not dead, not arrested, and, for a few hours, not bored. Small-town punk: it's a hell of a place to visit.