aMediocreMan

50 Shades of Billy Emo

Image from www.pinterest.com (This is from my other blog: www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com)

As Clemmy left the apartment, Jude watched her from the window in disbelief. He could see her bare ass cheek floating down the sidewalk and suddenly wished his hand was still caressing it.

He began to seriously wonder if he had just ruined the hipfatuation.

He picked up his phone to send her an apology text when he noticed a Yelp notification that nearly sent him into hysterics:

Yelp- Randall’s Review by EmoLover 24:

Dude, just went to Randall’s for Emo-Hip-Centric Night and seriously had my mind blown. Billy Emo did a “50 Shades of Billy Emo” show that was ridonkulous. He shaved the side of his head and has a bitchin new vampire-dragon tattoo that crawls from his head down his neck like magic. Then he plays this sexy-ass music and if you pay $3, you get to go into the red room of pain. He handcuffs you to a chair while he gives you a lap dance. OMG, my panties melted. He even gave me his phone number and told me to text him:) Billy Emo is the freakin’ baddest ass thing to hit Randall’s ever. I WILL BE THERE EVERY WEEK

Jude threw his phone to the floor and sunk into his beanbag chair. He pulled out his journal and started penning a new apology poem for Clemmy. With his world at Randall’s melting before his eyes, he has to find a way to keep his love.

“I have to make this right. I don’t think I can live without my patchouli muse.”

Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar

roo I parked on a side street and walked towards the bar. A couple was sitting at one of the tables directly next to the bar door.

The man looked liked a biker; he was tall, too thin (almost crack thin), had a black skull & bones do-rag on his head, old stonewashed jeans and roughed up leather boots. He was smoking Marlboro Reds and drinking beer from a tall glass.

The woman with him looked worn. Her leathery skin made her look about 55 years old, but she was probably 30. She had what local Floridians call “crocodile” skin; dry and cracked. She seemed a little fucked up. Not drunk, probably just some pills.

She had a white chicken on her left shoulder. He/she was just sitting on her shoulder looking nervously around, like chickens do.

“Is that a chicken on a crocodile-skinned woman’s shoulder sitting outside a bar,” I silently asked myself. I knew 100% that I had never dropped acid, but I was suddenly wondering if someone slipped me some.

People walking by were marveling at this sight. Apparently I wasn’t the only person dumbfounded by this fuckery.

A man stopped and asked her, “Is that a pet chicken, can I pet it?”

Crocodile-skin lady smiled, revealing a missing tooth right where the vampire tooth is supposed to be, “Yep, he’s our pet chicken. His name is Chuck. Yep, Chuck the Chicken. Go ahead and pet him,” she said. Continue reading “Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar”

Meat counter nightmare

earth-fare-meat-case (This is a 100% true story)

I walked up to the meat/seafood counter and took a number. It was the number 12. I always like a good, even number.

“What’s kimchi?” she asked the employee behind the counter.

She was probably in her early 30’s, dressed in way too expensive workout pants and top. She had a toddler in the front of her cart who was whining a lot. I wasn’t sure if the toddler was a boy or a girl.

The employee explained that kimchi was a type of spicy, fermented Asian cabbage. She quickly became disinterested when the word “fermented” floated into the air. Her face wrinkled a bit as if she just ate some bad sushi.

She then pointed into the meat case and asked, “How about ground chicken? Is that ground chicken good?”

He told her that she was pointing at boneless chicken thighs and that there may be some ground chicken a few feet away in the refrigerated section. She appeared confused and now the employee was becoming noticeably agitated.

The boy/girl toddler continued to whine. The mom handed he/she a candy of some sort which reduced the whine to some even more annoying sucking and slurping sounds.

Fuck me, I just needed two pieces of salmon. How long was this going to take? This is the risk I take going to Earth Fare, a fancy grocery store similar to Whole Foods. Most of the shoppers here exhibit the highest level of douchery. Continue reading “Meat counter nightmare”

My Savior Is Tougher Than Nails

shirt I went to my local grocery store to get a few things yesterday. I was getting some butter when an older man, about 60 or so was heading towards me pushing a cart. I always buy the Kerrygold Irish butter, it’s fucking delicious.

He wore a black shirt with a huge cross and quote on it that said, “My Savior Is Tougher Than Nails.” His hair was long and white and his skin weathered.

There was even blood painted on the ends of the nails. When you think about it, it really is a sadistic shirt.

I couldn’t help but wonder about what fucking sicko would wear a shirt like that. By wearing it in public he was obviously saying to the world, “Fuck your beliefs and fuck whoever your savior is because my savior is way more bad-ass than yours.”

So fucking American of him. We are bigger, badder and fuck you if you don’t like it.

Personally, it seems like his savior kind of failed. I mean shit, being nailed to the cross really did him in. Sounds like he was kind of a big, giant pussy. (I mean no disrespect to vaginas.) I love vaginas and I’m truly sorry that I often refer to people I don’t like as “pussies,” but it just feels right. I’m old school like that.

I wanted to say something to him, but my balls just aren’t that big.

I wanted to say, “Hey asshole, you know what???? My savior is late night McDonald’s. The fries are so delicious it makes me forget about the horse-meat burgers. And guess what??? My savior will always be here for me. McDonald’s will never give up.”

grocery checkout line

In the checkout line. A woman, around 60 or so reading one of those gossip magazines while the cashier slowly pulls the items down the mechanical beltway towards the plastic bags.

“Brad and Jen???? Did I miss something, when did they get back together? Didn’t she adopt a bunch of kids or something?”

“Well, you know when she did that weird, whatever you call it these days…… with that Billy Bob guy, I just knew something was wrong with her,” replied the cashier.

The customer laughs making her huge tits bounce around while her pudgy jowls jiggle. “You know Jen never can seem to keep a man. Makes you wonder what kind of woman, especially someone as rich as her, can’t keep a man. Such a shame, such a shame.”

She put the magazine back on the shelf. “I just don’t have time to read the whole story. I’m sure there’s a good reason for it. There’s always a reason.”

I wanted so badly to explain to these cackling fools the difference between Jen and Angelina, but it wouldn’t matter. Two people at a grocery store doing what us, dumb Americans do best; buying a bunch of food we don’t need and marveling at the bull-shit world of celebrity.

Golf course hotel

Another hotel for work. I stay here a couple times each month. It has a golf course and small convention center.

It’s the same freak show every time. Fat, white golfers with their pasty cheeks toasted by the south Florida sun, come in for drinks after chasing a ball around for five hours.

A mix of business men sitting at bar tables, intently focused on their laptops, checking stocks, because these rich assholes can actually afford to own stocks. Always rude to the bartenders and staff for no reason other than to satisfy their inflated egos.

Rarely, if ever, does a woman show up. I don’t blame the women though. When they do come to the bar, every guy is trying to be cooler than they actually are because their wives are far, far away. While at the hotel on for business, they dream of strange, anonymous pussy, but rarely seal the deal.

Business man next to me at the bar wearing a fancy jacket, cuff links- yes, fucking cuff links, apple air buds in, making calls, speaking loudly so everyone knows how important he at least thinks he is. Holy fuck, I don’t dress that nice for a wedding or funeral, but thankfully he does.

He ordered a Stella draft and that’s shit beer, so that confirms he’s a fucking fraud. He’s damn good looking and fit, but would probably fuck himself first because no woman could ever be as hot as he thinks he is.

I wish I could Dexter this guy; lay out the plastic, put the tranquilizer in his neck and drain his blood because he’s doing nothing positive for this world. He probably has a huge cock too, that’s usually how it works.

“I’m a salad guy,” he said to the waitress as his cuff links shimmered from the bar lights above.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I walked outside, smoked some weed and went to bed.

(Related Posts: Another Hotel Bar; Another Florida Hotel Bar; Beach Bar)

being Isaach De Bankole (a tribute to the Limits of Control)

Are you interested in science by any chance? I’m interested in molecules. The Sufi say, each one of us is a planet spinning in ecstasy. But I say, Each one of us is a set of shifting molecules, spinning in ecstasy. In the near future, worn out things will be made new again by reconfiguring the molecules. A pair of shoes, a tire. Molecular detection will also allow the determination of an object’s physical history; this matchbook for example, its collection of molecules could indicate everywhere it’s ever been. They could do it with your clothes or even your skin for that matter. The universe has no center and no edges. Molecules, from the Limits of Control

It would never work. I could never be the character Lone Man who Isaach De Bankole portrays in the Jim Jarmusch movie The Limits of Control.

He’s so calm, so centered and so focused on the mission at hand. People speak to him and he often stares back as if nothing has been said.

He ritually performs Tai Chi to keep his center. He’s so fucking disciplined.

When Paz De La Huerta is lying naked on his bed, begging him to enjoy her, he simply denies her.

“Do you like sex,” she says.

He simply replies, “Yes,” and refrains.

No sudden moves, no inkling that he even has a dick. He doesn’t even take his suit off as she sleeps naked, lying next to him .

Then the beautiful Paz adorns a clear raincoat with her naked brilliance beneath.

“Do you like my raincoat,” she says.

Again he replies, “Yes,” and refrains. My idol, he must be gay because she is fucking incredible and almost every man on the planet would chew off their arm to have a chance.

Again, maybe that’s the point. Maybe we are all to eager to partake and all it takes is a gorgeous, naked woman to seal the deal

His patience is unmatched by any character in the movie. He doesn’t sweat, he never gets nervous, his lips hardly move.

Hell, maybe that’s the point. Maybe we should all be more like Lone Man.

Even when he finishes his deed at the end, he’s stone cold smooth.

Maybe none of you have a fucking clue what I’m talking about here because you haven’t seen the movie. It’s worth watching and worth thinking about.

I think there is a bigger meaning here, somewhat of a sad commentary on current society and its inability to exhibit restraint.

“He who thinks he’s bigger than the rest of us….must go to the cemetery. There he will see what the world really is. It’s a handful of dirt.” (Mexican, from the Limits of Control)

pelicans

Finishing a beer, standing on my hotel balcony looking into the Atlantic Ocean, beautiful.

Several pelicans were flying by, gliding in unison, almost looking at me.

Every time I see a pelican I think about my grandfather. He loved pelicans. They were his favorite birds.

I can’t help but think that it’s him flying above the water, watching me, wishing to hug me again. Wishing he could give me advice again. Because his advice was always fucking great.

Wishing to sit with me again and enjoy a cold “Green Hornet,” that was his nickname for Heineken.

He was an intelligent man.

He was a great man.

His heart was true.

He was real.

I miss him more than anyone will know.

Tonight, I look into my hotel mirror, a couple tears rolling down, wishing I could be more like him.

Because he was real.

I have so far to go, so fucking far

to be as good as him.

beach bar- (florida east coast)

(This is a crappy bar I go to sometimes while working. It’s always an incredible trainwreck and I can’t stop going. I know I’m an asshole, thanks.)

It’s a Wednesday night around 7:30.

Barback– guy with American flag bandana, dancing behind the bar, throwing his lighter in the air like a drunk Muppet, trying to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but he’s fucking not at Burning Man

Bartender– cute, but worn, searching for something more, she could do better than this. She meanders behind the bar languidly, like a beaten puppy, just hoping for some decent drunk to pet her and scratch behind her ear.

Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, talking to one of the regulars at the bar, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck-up, if they only knew…..

New couple- sits next to me at the bar, she’s cute, but you can tell the husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching about wanting a frozen drink, fat husband remains indifferent to her bitching. She’s definitely tired of his dick, sad because he actually seems like a nice guy, but damn she’s such a bitch. Continue reading “beach bar- (florida east coast)”

a hipster massage

(This is from my website: www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com)

Scene: Clemmy goes to Jude’s apartment to give him a massage. He is still floating in his Xanax dream when she arrives. She is wearing a robe to hide the clothes underneath so it will be a surprise.

Clemmy walked in to Jude’s apartment and he greeted her with a languid, sloppy hug.

“Wow, those pills really seem to be working. Now take your shirt off, lay on the coffee table because I’m about to blow your mind,” she said.

From her gingham bag, Clemmy pulled out four patchouli candles, patchouli massage oil and her cassette player. With Jude laying face down on the coffee table she lit the candles, dropped her robe to the ground and pushed “play” on the cassette.

Thelonious Monk live in Paris 1967 filled the air as she dimmed the lights.

She dripped the patchouli massage oil on the middle of Jude’s upper back and whispered into his ear:

“Just relax my sweet Jude. Picture yourself riding your fixed-gear bike alone on the beach as the waves gently splash the shore while I await you with a vegan Kale shake.”

Jude let out a soft moan as he began to sink into the coffee table like it was luxurious Marriott hotel pillow. Continue reading “a hipster massage”