Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Shirt Off Your Back

So I'm at a concert last night for Ray Davies from the Kinks...

And needless to say I'm the youngest person there asides from the stray ten-year old whose abusive father forced to accompany with him under penalty of the belt.

And I'm sitting in my seat amidst a sea of gray hair and paunchy guts, when this guy walks past with me a fucking Who tie-dyed shirt on.

Now, let me first be clear. This is not about the fact that a grown man was wearing a tie-dyed shirt. No, this is not at all about some loser who grew up in the sixties and used to dip his white shirt in multi-colored inks and paints to achieve a rainbow effect that makes Paul Lynde about as masculine as George Clooney.

Not about the tie-dyed shirt man who then sold out his entire generation when he finally put down his hash pipe, stopped mourning over Mama Cass and her ham sandwich

and finally went to work, eventually voting for Reagan and taking out a loan to buy a three-story house in Long Island.

No. But...fuck that guy. Tie-dyed? Ugh, punch yourself in the face.

This is about the Who shirt. At a Kinks concert.

Ok, so they're both British based bands. And they both came to prominence at the same time. And they both played a similar type of British rock for at least awhile.

Now, let me ask you- if you went to a Blur concert, would you wear a Pulp shirt?

If you went to a U2 concert when they supported joshua tree, would you wear an Alarm shirt?

No. You're going to support the band you're here to see by wearing a shirt by a band from a similar genre??

Now, they're selling the shirts outside for 20 dollars, and I'm amazed enough that people are already wearing them and not carrying around the shirt they changed out of. Did you show up bareback for this concert, Lady Godiva?

It's obvious you're just trying to appear hip, like you have an encyclopedic knowledge of musical trends and genres, and you seem like the asshole who I'd hear at the urinal discussing with some stranger the ethereal significance of Satanic Majesties Request when looked at through the kaleidoscope of time and changing music tastes and production techniques. Thanks, Professor.

You have kids for christ's sake. Take off the tie-dye, at the very least throw on a shirt for the band you're here to see, and sit the fuck down in front of me- you're stupid old man comb-over is flapping in my purview of the stage.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

All Dogs Go To Hill Valley

If you're like me....and for your sake, I hope that you are...

Then you're plagued by the thought that maybe dogs dream the future.

Why not? Would we really know one way or the other if they did?

"You're gonna die up there."

No, we'd be fucking clueless.

You know that Chihuahua that trembles terribly every time you pick him up?

Well now you know why. The poor thing dreamt about the pick-up truck that is going fall off the overpass and crush you in your mini-cooper in a couple weeks.
All he wants to do is warn you. But he can't. Because he's a FUCKING DOG.

They shake themselves because they're trying to wipe the vision of their loyal master being paralyzed in that elevator accident three years from now clean from their minds.

Canines are out there left and right, just getting prescient temporal visions of their masters futures...

...and we're up here walking around on two feet like we own the world, when our fates and destinies are being played out by an animal that given the choice, would eat it's own defecation.

Though who knows? Maybe they're on to something. If they're smart enough to see into our futures, who am I to resist?

So next time you're lying in bed and your dog comes up to the side, sits down, tongue dangling out of the side of his mouth, what he's probably thinking is, "I KNOWZ HOW YOU GONNA DIE!"

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Bag It & Tag it

Cashier: Do you want a bag?
Me: Do you want a punch in the face?

Look at how much shit I just bought?
No, I don't want a bag. I'm a fucking traveling circus performer and prefer to live my craft by juggling these 13 items the three-mile walk back to my house.

Look, I'm a big Ringo fan too.

But we don't live in the fucking Octopus's Garden.

I only have 2 arms. I know your remedial math class through high school was basically just watching reruns of Sesame Street.

But I think the Cookie Monster would spit masticated, partially digested Oreos into your face if you asked him such nonsense.

Just give me the benefit of the doubt and assume I'll want a bag. If I was only buying one god damn tube of toothpaste, maybe I'll live dangerously and say I don't need a bag.

Or maybe you can just go back to whatever bridge it is you live under thinking up riddles and go fuck yourself.
And no Rite Aid, no I will not be taking the online survey you pointed out the number for on my receipt.


Thursday, November 5, 2009

Spare Some Change For an Old Altar Boy, Fad'r

You ever notice how the palm one of one's hand can be formed into a perfect little cup?

And that when you're counting out my change and I hold that chalice beneath your face, I'm miming that "this is where my change goes."

Now, I understand that since you're working behind a register, those Master classes at Harvard Business School you're taking haven't gotten to the important curriculum yet.

However, unless your depth-perception has been fucked with by the asbestos in the walls of this needs-to-be condemned building, you see the cup I'm holding out to you.

So then why the FUCK do you drop the change all over the counter instead??

Now It's sliding all over the god damn place; that dime just fell on the floor; a nickel's rolled beneath the counter. I need this?

And look, your empty apology to me...just don't bother. I know you're not sorry. I can tell by the look on that Stars Wars mask you wear as a face.

It's bad enough I had to listen to you give me your sales pitch on the CVS card I should get with all the oratory eloquence of Daniel Day-Lewis in My Left Foot....

You know, the void in the art of raconteuring by the death of Spalding Grey may just have been filled. My spidey senses are tingling that there's a career change in your future!!

Just put my pack of Camel Lights and box of condoms in the plastic bag and let me be on my day, Morlock.

Congrats on your role in Precious, by the way.