On the way down to Miami a couple of weeks ago we drove past a new town called Tradition. It was off 1-95 near West Palm Beach. It was just a couple weeks past the last asskicking hurricane Florida got. Tradition was pretty badly damaged, from what I could see. Tradition wasn't built with bricks and stones, it was built with drywall and metal studs. There was nothing about Tradition that was traditional, it was a facade. It was flimsy, it was threadbare, it was feelgood in a way that a hit of crack cocaine might be, not that I've ever tried. Tradition is about as fake as the dude deciding that his 4 barred Pepto Bismol hot rod needs to be "updated" with a coat of flat black and red rims. Tradition doesn't just spring up from the ground like Yanni reinventing himself with an electro record. Neither is it a worn out New York Dolls deciding to go out on the road without Johnny Thunders. That's pretty much like the recurring nightmare we all have of of going to work naked, except we're not as famous, or with that much to lose. Instant classic, fuck that! A classic can never be instant, it has to have been here a while. It has to have been ogled and perused, it has to be taken in. Monochromatic shit sucked then, it classically sucks now. It doesn't matter how many "Tradition" neighborhoods douchebag land speculators churn out, the truth of the matter is is that time, and time alone, that gives tradition its value. And time is something we all have too little of.