Archive | April, 2014

Hey You: A Soliloquy

30 Apr

I hadn’t been at the bar ten minutes when a brash bag of wind swooped in and hit me with this monologue.  He had patchy blonde facial hair and a rusty jacket that looked like it was straight out of a Dickens novel.  Upon his departure, I remained frozen in time, reduced to a stone statue for the next hundred years until the curse could be reversed.

“Hey you.  What are you thinking about?  Don’t worry… I promise I’m not hitting on you.  I’m just here to look for friends.  But you are too cute to be sitting all by yourself.  Have you ever been in love?  Like, REAL love?  I was once.  But who’s to say what’s real and what is not?  Guess what?  Next week I’m off to a Peruvian jungle to do hallucinogenic drugs and eat nothing but ants in a Shamanistic rite of passage ceremony.  I’ve already done peyote in the New Mexican desert and that worked out really well for me sooooo.  Oh, I’m MUCH more confident now.  I mean, you didn’t know me before, but don’t you think?  By the way, do you like war?  I have a theory that anyone who watches football is actually pro-war.  It is, after all, just glorified battle, isn’t it?  Take the Super Bowl, for example.  We wait all year to cheer as two opposing sides violently crash into each other for a few hours.  If that doesn’t symbolize war, I don’t know what does.  What was your New Years resolution?  Did you follow it?  I don’t believe in resolutions.  That’s a nice handbag you have there.  Pretty basic, though.  I care a lot about fashion… but I don’t go too high end.  What I REALLY love is a good airplane carry-on.  Mine is vintage.  It’s from the 1940s, which is coincidentally the time period I was actually meant to be alive during.  Well, nice talking with you, but I have to be up early.  I have to go check out some dunes in Jamaica Bay tomorrow morning.  You know, Hurricane Sandy and all.”

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A Man Called Goat

23 Apr

I spent the past week in Austin where, as you can imagine, I encountered many colorful cowboys.  I received two marriage proposals while I was there– the first from a one-legged homeless man, and another from a flirtatious two-stepper who proposed marriage to me and then followed my male friend into the men’s room and asked him if his pubic hair was straight or curly.  But perhaps my favorite of all the Texan characters I met while I was here was a 44-year-old metalhead named Goat.

My friend and I happened upon a bar on Sixth Street that was playing softcore torture porn on their big screen TVs.  We were about to close our tab and journey onward when an assortment of aging metalheads blew into the bar like a warm spring breeze.  We looked at each other and agreed that we needed to stick around for a couple more rounds at this point.  Minutes later, a particularly amusing Metallica fan who had been playing the worst game of pool I’ve ever seen came over to me and introduced himself as “Goat.”  I asked him what happened with his game and he replied in a smooth Southern accent “I lost by sinking the eight ball in the wrong hole.  Although I don’t believe in wrong holes.”  Oh my.  Goat was wearing a red bandana tied around a full head of salt and pepper hair that went down to his waist, a full beard, pants that were tight in the butt and loose in the legs, a red shirt, and the essential denim vest covered in various band buttons.

Goat and his sidekick, Freddie, invited us to play pool with them and Freddie was no better at hitting balls with sticks than Goat was.  Each time it was my turn, Goat would tell me which ball to aim for and from which angle to hit it.  I kindly reminded him that he had lost every game up to this point in record time.  While playing, I learned that Goat was in a metal band called Pain Through Fate.  I looked it up on Facebook and found a photo of the band which depicted five forty-year-olds posing under a ceiling fan in someone’s living room.  The band’s description reads “Conveying the insane fucked up hurdles of life through the intensity of Metal.”  After telling him I live in New York, he informed me that he will be playing a solo show there in the next few weeks at some venue where the opening acts include a girl who covers herself in fake blood and a guy who gets naked onstage and eats cat food.

After losing the most embarrassing game in the history of billiards, I noticed that Freddie had suddenly disappeared into thin air.  Goat made little attempt to locate his comrade, but ample attempts to cop a feel.  It was time for me to depart.

The next day, I was telling the story at my friend’s bar and several of her regulars expressed that they were familiar with Goat.  “Well I guess with a name like ‘Goat,’ you’re bound to have a reputation around town” I said.  “That’s nothin!” a man in a giant lonestar flag shirt bellowed at me, “I also know a Hog, a Catfish, a Lunchbox, and a Juicebox.”

Do I HAVE to go back to New York?