Walked into a bar in Las Cruces, saw a young man sitting at a table, tattoos over most of his exposed skin head, face and arms protruding from dirty biker leathers. He was reading a book. Reading a book. We talked for two hours about Kerouac and Hunter Thompson, Steinbeck and Sartre. Not once did we worry about Dancing with Car Thieves or whether the Kardashians gained weight in their thighs.