It’s the 60’s.
The beat generation, cynical and critically dumb.
Smoking their cigarettes backwards, snapping their fingers in lieu of clapping, reading REALLY bad homespun angst-filled poetry, out loud mind you, to like minded dipshits that think its brilliant.
There is a poetry group meeting on the over-sized stone patio at the LAX Starbucks.
Its a pretty grim bunch.
This would have been a motley crew in their 20’s, now imagine that same unwashed image you have in your head as being in their 50’s. (AND NOT AGING WELL.)
The poetry is some of the most self-indulgent mental swill I have ever heard.
It gives new meaning to the term “Narcissistic”.
Kind of a mental grassy knoll to take aim at your intellect.
But they are not acting alone.
You have to wonder how these 10 people found each other in a world this large.
It’s like AIDS and E-Coli go to a bar and meet up with Spanish Flu and decide to start a band.
“The eternal me is but a leaf, stuck in a cosmic sewer.” (Direct quote)
I wish the line above was an exaggeration made by yours truly.
However, that self indulgent verbal puke was real, and uttered by a mid 50’s guy with a mullet, bowling shirt, khaki shorts, black knee socks and sandals.
Black socks with shorts? Who says theres no crime at the beach?
Think of Billy Ray Cyrus mixed with a homeless guy. Some of that Miley-style crazy.
I have been told that I am too judgemental, too harsh without provocation.
Fuck it, this dude is all kinds of crazy stank, rolled in self indulgent polyester.
And it has not bathed recently. (True, the wind shifted and I got a whiff.)
So now my nose is being gang raped along with my ears and my intellect.
Overly dramatic, maybe. But the line between an overly dramatic douchebag and an accuracy driven asshole is a thin one at times, and the same thing the rest of the time.
And yes, I get it, I should not make fun of the shitty poets. Their look, their style of dress, and certainly not their SHITTY FUCKING POETRY!
Two things. So be it. And bite me.
And before we start that whole “Why did you go there?” thing, lets just understand that I AM THERE, and I rarely go elsewhere.
I am glad I got that off my chest.
On to better things.
Long story, but I have the day off of work.
Not working is a good thing for most people.
One of my more neurotic issues is the fact that while I don’t love work, I feel awkward when I am not there.
I like to think of think of it as my immigrant ancestry showing.
And not immigrant sneaking across the border, I mean coming thru Ellis Island immigrant. (At least my great grandfather did.)
There is no real joke here, just the one on us when everyone realizes that the several million welcomed illegals that are streaming across the border are going to have to have someone pay their tab.
There, got my little rant in. I feel better, like my mental/emotional colen just started a cleanse and a sizable quantity of “Shit” just passed.
Thinking about it, that would make this blog a toilet.
I am ok with that. The imagery is a little nasty, but the analogy is solid.
One of the unwashed beatnik’s just said the word “Profit” 10 times in a row, smacking his chest the whole time.
Thise is beginning to take on a whole new level of fucking horrible that I have never seen before.
This might be a spoiler alert from a horror film. The killer kidnaps someone, chains them to the wall in some filthy tiled bathroom, and trots out the beatniks to perform.
And the hostage chews thru his own neck it get away.
I could definitely see that.
It would be worth it.