me at age 5 reppin’ hard with some serious 80′s style
About a year ago, this guy called the “recession” came into my city and alerted everybody at the Starbucks that I would no longer be buying Vanilla Soy Lattes in their establishment, he then headed over to my local Mexican jam, Boca Grande, and let everyone know that serving me steak and guacamole burritos would take place no more. Finally, the “recession” came into my place of employment, a nice little start-up company that made indie music videos, and kicked every employee in his or her metaphoric balls and sent us all to the mystical land of unemployment. Shit was hard. I had credit card bills that rang up expenses of Dirk Diggler-esque flights of shame and sunny vacations with chicken-headed bitches. I had no other choice; the “recession” had made me move back home with my parents…back to the suburbs.
I originally come from a place called Norwood, Massachusetts. The last real memory I had of being in that town was picking up my bloody teeth from the sidewalk after a cop had punched them out for skateboarding on said sidewalk. Now I was back. It was ten years later and not a lot had really changed…expect that cop that hit me was now the chief of police and there was 5 Dunkin Donuts instead of 3. However, all the good ole’ familiar charms were still there, we still had juggalos that fingered their juggalettes on the town common, the local drunks still calling everyone who walked by them a “bozo” or “faggot”, and the Automile (literally a mile of car dealerships) was still the town’s biggest landmark…next to “Crazy Helen”, that is. Crazy Helen was still there, perched up on the bench, in all her glory, where she always was, right in front of the Civic Center. Now well into her 60’s, dressed in baby clothes and talking to the dozen stuffed animals that surrounded her, all while the entire town could see her foot long vagina in plain view. Growing up, we always thought she was the Mayor of Norwood, turns out she just lost it on a lot of acid one day. Another fun fact about Norwood: When the town started to get more of an “international” population in the late 90’s, more restaurants started opening up. The captain of the football team at the time thought he would “show dem foreigners” by spray painting “GO HOME CHINKS” on one of the restaurant windows…it was a Japanese sushi place. Kids from Norwood can’t even get their racial slurs right.
Me pretending to be the bad-ass that I will never be on a motorcycle that I will never pay off.
Adapting to being back was a tad bit difficult at first. I tend to stick out like a sore thumb amongst all the honkeys in my hood. More specifically, I tend to dress like Marlon Brando in his 1973 interview with Dick Cavett, a look that goes over in Norwood like a shart on a first date hook-up. And when your town is packed to the brim with jocks, yuppies, and soccer moms, and the total amount of punk rock in the town could be found in the 5 milk crates in my bedroom, that look can be met with some “mixed reviews”. Just the other day, I took a ride on my skateboard to local coffee shop, a shop that is about as cool as a 30 Seconds to Mars record, but there I was because the “recession” fucked me out of my routine of bougie lattes. As I opened the door, I might has well been mounting RuPaul in SS garb with 88 lazer-shooting dildos wrapped around my forehead, because the typical norms of Norwood wanted no part of the space alien skate rat that shuffled in before them. I took it all in stride. I have listened to Bad Brains my entire life…I LIKE being a fucking weirdo; I take pride in being a total outcast. My favorite thing to do is to be stunningly polite to people who are absolutely fearful of you, because it really fucks with their head. There is certain magic to that. If looks could kill, that shit was an UZI, but I was seemingly in the clear of any verbal confrontation whilst ordering and digesting my poorly made cup of joe. Leaving the coffee shop, one of the town drunks called me a “faggot bitch”…it was good to be home.
Basically, moving from the city to the burbs is like jumping into a time machine that goes back and sideways 5 years. Everyone’s style is wack as fuck. Conversations are way more fake and are usually only about the weather and how someone’s dog just got hit by the garbage truck. People aren’t really into music and art, and if they are, it’s usually not that good…I’m talking some “Precious Moments” shit. . Girls are way less hot, and usually have about 3 kids by the time they are 25. People drive like shit because they are either elderly or filthy rich. The upside is that it is easy to get away with smoking dope and being drunk in public…and there is plenty of parking.
Typical Friday night entertainment. This band is so fucking lame.
I think they are called “For Cryin’ Out Loud”. So fucking lame.
So here I am. “Burb Life”. The “recession” is keeping me currently grounded, but it’s only temporary, baby. Sure, it’s hard to convince girls to come stay with me and not to wake up my “65 year-old roommates”, but in the meantime, I am partying with the elderly, having inane conversations with the retarded, and drinking really cheaply. I guess suburban life ain’t so bad after all.