I am a walking fashion violation
Another Saturday night and I ain’t got no- … Wait a second. I got myself. I’ve got a full belly, and I’m sitting in my fave little neighborhood coffee joint with a fresh caffeine concoction, laughing at the chubby Hispanic woman sitting at the counter with her back to me. She’s wearing a white wife-beater, and it keeps inching up, exposing two large, moon-like gluteus maximus globes that peek out over her low-riding black jeans. In between the moons, there’s a big ol’ buttcrack, which makes her look like the plumber character Dan Aykroyd played on Saturday Night Live decades ago. I wonder if she’s got a screwdriver in there? At any rate, I tried to snap a smartphone photo, but it didn’t work because I’m a crummy photographer.
I guess I shouldn’t make fun of her. She kinda flirted with me when I first got here. Must be that cleaned-up butch I got at the barbershop today, which might make me marginally more attractive. Or maybe it’s the pranksterish mood I’m in tonight, which is what happens when you wear a plaid flannel shirt over a striped undershirt and walk through the, um, ghey district, getting the tsk-tsk eye from multiple passersby. Or, maybe, hey, I dunno. I sorta let go of the idea of me being any kind of player with the ladies a long time ago, or at least a while back, and so today I’ve got the love life to match my Buddhist monk butch, and I guess that’s all right. Don’t ask me to wear a saffron-colored robe, though, because I’m too damned tall for that. Anyway, it’s Saturday night. Anything can happen.
I got up early this morning, as is my custom, and did my Double-A stuff that I do, which took me through noon or so. Went and got the haircut cleaned up, and then had plans to hit this picnic but, because I sleep kinda crummy in the summertime, being a wilty Scottish fellow who doesn’t do well in hotter climes, I fell into a mid-afternoon slumber to make up for those lost zzz’s. Actually, I started watching some old Dragnet episodes on the laptop, and next thing I knew I was zoned out for a couple of hours. Woke up, watched more Dragnet eps, sensed an unhealthy pattern might be developing, picked up the guitar and strummed out another troubadour-like love song to a woman I like to call Winky McFuckmepumps, and then got my act together and went out to eat.
Question: Why is it so many really attractive women are out on the town with totally douchey guys? This reality-show aesthetic has really messed it up for quirky gentlemen like me, because the standard seems to have shifted in favor of scummy dorks in porkpie hats and shit. I’mina halfta skeeze up my game to catch up with these shmoheims, because what I’m putting forth right now isn’t quite cutting it.
I wish I had a nice Gibson SG plugged into a Marshall stack waiting for me when I get home, because I feel like waking some neighbors with high-volume power chords. I’m in as much a mood to cause trouble as I get, which really isn’t much, maybe just a few more wisecracks as usual. I’m filled with great conversation, yet there’s a beautiful woman standing five feet from me talking to some assclown about shopping for paint for a house that he just bought. Which illustrates the old maxim, women care far more about security than they do about witty conversation. That shit goes back to Fred and Wilma Flintstone days.
Fuggit. I’m gonna kick it here for a bit, and go watch more Dragnet. —Jackson Griffith