Are my dirty Dickies days done

When I was a teenager I raised a lot of hell. Or at least I sure was bent on trying to. So many are the times that I was cuffed and stuffed into the back of a cop car I can't re-count the count. Taught me a thing or two learning things the sure and hard way is always a good way to learn something. What that something is I am still figuring. When I had disembarked from my punk rock band of brothers I grew up with and dropped out of college after my first semester, I knew I was searching for something. Just as well could have been running from something but that has never been my way. I found a clue in the back ad pages of an Easyrider magazine while I was driving combination tractor trailer beer trucks across the open roads of the western Rocky Mountains; MMI, or Motorcycle Mechanics Institute, or as I later learned: Micky Mouse Institute. It ended up becoming the best way I have yet learned to make $18K disappear but anyhoo here I am so fair enough. I remember trying to pick up girls in that hell hole north Phoenix tech-scholastic stint of my life by telling them I was a washed up old Punk-rocker. -True it was but old was something I had no clue or grasp of until maybe perhaps lately as my hair farming chin is sprouting grey hairs. Not just a few but a full on patch. Stereotypical 36 year old freakout moment im not having. but it does make me ponder how washed up of an old Punk-rocker I am now. Silly thing it is to just write about but something on my mind lately and after sitting down to think about it while I try to spell shit on this keyboard I reckon that there is no true time we ever grow up or grow old. No moment we become washed up. Only one moment at a time.  But there is certainly a time when we can go race our motorbikes and live a life that isn't anything short of a true epic good fucking time.