1997: The manager of the Urban Outfitters on Guadalupe St. calls over a horseback cop to chase away punk kids on the sidewalk; in the window the mannequins wear the same outfits the punks have on. Espresso and bagels fucking everywhere, like virulent indestructible weeds. A two-bedroom shack propped up crooked on cinder blocks costs $950 a month in a neighborhood where an apologetic wetback family scavenges the yard, pilfering nuts. After work the citizens head downtown for drinks here, appetizers there, in rooms with dim track-lighting and artfully twisted metal. There's a teen curfew and a cocktail culture, only a statue of Stevie Ray Vaughan; and time is what the trains run on. 1992: