What has always occurred in the aftermath of unique, seemingly authentic cultural moments (the birth of punk, surfing, skateboarding, let us say) is the slow devolution into a sad, nasty squabble between old men debating who was there, and who wasn’t, and who was just in it for the money, and who truly loved it. They fight over breadcrumbs of approval from the vast class of consumers who feel an absence of authenticity in their lives, and are willing to pay for the shadow of its presence.

But as for the real thing—an authentic moment—like an exotic particle, it lived and died in a brief spark, and was over before it even had a name.