I was never a The Pogues fan really, because all alternative stuff fell into the trench coat private school white people styles of the shit town I grew up around. In fact, I’ve recently been downloading a lot of the old thrash metal records I used to love back in the day, except I had them dubbed onto yellow Certron tapes, one per side of a 90-minute. Actually, two CDs I downloaded this week were the two sides of one of the tapes I wore the fuck out, Side A had Pleasure to Kill by Kreator, and Side B had Bonded by Blood by Exodus. That was more my speed. There was a dude I was tight with back then, and we’d hang out behind the Big Star smoking weed and drinking wine and wander around Farmville, sitting on the wall around the corner from the arcade where we could catch people going past, even though we were 13 or 14. The whole thing was very Dazed & Confusedy, because this was before the interwebs so rural towns were still in the ‘70s until like 1986 or ’87. That dude I was tight with, he’s inside that giant social network that is eventually gonna be exposed as a scam to us all, and he’s got a JESUS tattoo on his arm, like the letters not the dude, and lifts weights all the time and talks about making the middle “S” bigger because it’s on his bicep. And he talks about testifying to people at the Wal-Mart.
The thing is, god bless that dude. We’ve all done things and took turns the wrong way and it got us to where we are. The internet acts like it’s better than every goddamned thing (like I did at the beginning of this passage), but fuck man, we all suck in very own special way. If my old school metalhead homeboy has flipped teams and wants to talk up his slice Jesus to random bystanders at a godforsaken Wal-Mart Supercenter, then so be it. It’s not really that much different than me throwing my retard-drunken-nutjob-philosophical-cosmic-karmic-comeup nonsense into your cyberbot for you to see.
So this The Pogues song, basically it became the only The Pogues song I really ever rocked because I dug when they all sang that shit in The Wire when McNulty was pretend dead after fucking everything up in the end. I still think I prefer them fake cops act-drunk-singing it more than The Pogues. I’m a contrarian though, and too many pasty fuckers behind computer screens have told me how The Wire is the best thing ever, and I oftentimes imagine these are the same types who were into The Pogues when I was not trying to hear that when getting high which is why I was driven from getting high in comfortable bedrooms in 2-story houses to getting high through crushed beer cans behind grocery stores while sitting on milk crates. We cannot change our destiny; it is born into us like hair color and penis size.
STEAL “The Body Of An American”
NEXT UP: I will probably use the word “trill” ironically to make fun of something!
No comments:
Post a Comment