The best I could do at the time was to make tapes of the television, recording Shawn’s interviews and the many songs (even fractured versions) by Social Distortion, Youth Brigade, and Minor Threat, as well as the other videos and snippets that aired on Night Flight. It was still several months away from me finding my first copies of Maximumrocknroll and Thrasher, featuring ample ads for JFA and Septic Death and the key to mail-ordering records that would then take like eight weeks to ship to you. No joke - the Crestwood IGA put Chef Boyardee in the “foreign foods” section. And the likelihood of walking into the local IGA and finding a copy of Out of Step was slim. Night Flight planted the seed but didn’t furnish addresses for germination.

I had no avenue for getting hold of records. They were the only alternatives I could find since the nearest city was Louisville, which might well have been a million miles away for an eighth grader with nothing to his name but a K-Mart dirt bike. I started listening to more classical and jazz, simply because I didn’t know what else to do, but I didn’t really like those, either. But even that rarely hit a chord with me. I started listening to more metal, simply because it was considered disrespectful and taboo. After all, everyone else was going through the same biological hurricane. Certainly I was going through my formative stage, and I am painfully aware of all the stupid things I did and felt as a budding teenager. But it seemed like something more, something that couldn’t be idly dismissed as adolescence. It could be dismissed simply as “those raging hormones,” a by-product of that tumultuous time in our lives when our voices change and we start to grow hair on parts of the body where there didn’t used to be any hair, like on the bottoms of our feet and on our tongue. Everyday, the feeling that I was not a part of what was going on around me grew. And more than that, I found I didn’t want to ignore it. The feeling was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Gnawing at the back of my mind was a feeling of dissatisfaction with what was offered to me on a daily basis. Everything was losing its luster (though I have since made my peace with Ready for the World, though to this day, I maintain that “Sussudio” can go to hell). Roller skating parties, “Oh Shiela,” school dances. Things that had once satisfied my pubescent desire for entertainment were increasingly hollow and unaffecting. Polo shirts, Morris Day and the Time, and “Sussudio” just didn’t do it for me anymore. Toward the end of eighth grade, I found myself increasingly discontent with what had once kept me happy. Or rather, it doesn’t require that at all, but I’m going to do it anyway. To fully grasp exactly how much and why I love Intrepidos Punks requires a rather long-winded tale of a young lad growing up in semi-rural Kentucky. Everything I’ve ever been interested in - exploitation films, sleaze, punk rock, luchadores, scantily clad new wave girls, dune buggies - it all comes together in this perfect storm of day-glo mohawks and ten foot tall teased-hair brilliance. But the frosting it layers onto the biker film cake make it into something utterly sublime. At its heart, Intrepidos Punks is really nothing more than a by-the-numbers biker film updated for the looser censorship morals of the 1970s. In fact, it wouldn’t be entirely beyond the pale to say that my entire life has been leading up to the moment I first heard of, then tracked down and watched this overwhelmingly fantastic slice of punk rock exploitation from, of all places, Mexico. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, Teleport City was created for one reason and one reason only: to eventually review Intrepidos Punks.

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