The filthy punks are back in New York City! Like a flock of battered and unclean migratory birds, except in this case followed by a fleet of puppies, a congress of crunchies has completed its age-old, year-long cycle of touring down the west coast, through New Orleans, and at last back up for summer in New York City. When they arrived in the East Village about two weeks ago, it was obvious that their early-90s peak herd numbers were decidedly reduced. (Blame the current difficulty of jumping trains—free cross-country transport is nearly non-existent now. Or! Blame Starbucks, man!) Now, most mornings I have two adorable little filthy children sleeping in the trashwell of my St. Mark's tenement (I am sometimes overcome with the urge to shower them with bread crumbs)—and New York mag's Alex Morris has spent the night on the incredibly non-mean East Village streets with them. The kids hear about a punk show in a newly cool neighborhood called "Bushwick," so off they go!

Finally, they see a glow of light in the distance: a storefront with fluorescent beer signs illuminating the window. From outside, you can hear the muffled pulse of a heavy drumbeat and the hum of a crowd. Jazmin grabs Jamie's hand excitedly. Suvy smoothes up his Mohawk in anticipation.

Once inside, though, their faces fall. The front room is riddled with hipsters, the current incarnation of yuppie scum, lined up at the bar. In the small back room where the band is playing, there are only a handful of people, not nearly enough for a mosh pit. And even if there were, the music could hardly inspire any thrashing about. The band is a joke—a bunch of paunchy guys in their forties flopping around on a plywood stage. "I used to be able to jump higher, but I've put on some weight over the years," the lead singer admits between songs.

Oh yeah, we forgot to tell them what happened to New York while they were away. Sorry guys!