The scene is positively Dickensian, albeit Dickens by way of Irvine Welsh or Aaron Cometbus.

A dozen blank-faced street kids—crusties or, in these parts, gutter punks—are chilling in the shade of a malnourished oak tree on Annunciation Street on a sweltering July afternoon, awaiting ambivalently their 15 seconds of fame.  Of course, the urchins of “Oliver Twist” didn’t sport spider web tattoos, copious body piercings, Boris Karloff make-up and thrift store variations on fetish-ware.  And t...