I got a pair of jeans that I wear every day at night now, because they feel good. I refuse to wash them, though eventually I’ll probably leave them laying somewhere where the kids or the ol’ lady throws them in the wash because of how they look. There is a pride in that one pair of jeans you wear every day, doing anything and everything, including tending to farm animals, cleaning out chicken coops, kneeling in mud, moving a bunch of dirty shit out the shed to the dump, standing around a bonfire soaking in the smoke, spilling beer, wiping pork chop greasy hands on, all of it, stained into a single pair of jeans. They become a badge of honor. This is also a rebellion on my part because I have to wear clean clothes every day to work, including underwear, and it’s all very stifling to my inner-self. I would rather wear the same old nasty shit I’ve been wearing since four states ago, and of course no drawers. (I would not call it “going commando” because I imagine the type of dude who says shit like that is afraid to not wear underwear.)
Often times I realize there is a ton of that old 1970s outlaw biker longhaired country boy bullshit built deep into my DNA, just from how I grew up. It don’t bother me, because as I navigate this 2010 world, I realize that’s something to be proud of. The rednecks where I live are weaselly and weak, sterilized by the Wal-Mart soul autoclave. Plus hip hop has made them even weirder. Like I was behind some skinny young redneck dude the other week at the hardware store, with his camo baseball hat turned sort of sideways, and jeans on his skinny ass, and the way he kind of wobble swaggered, I wasn’t sure if he was mildly retarded or not. Seriously.
But shit man, I didn’t mean to talk shit. I have a big ass beard now and look forward to this bridge of a job I have now moving back to where I can grow the hair back out, rock my dirty jeans, whatever they may be by then, because nothing lasts. I’ve got this jacket covered in patches that I would never rock when I was working for myself, slum dogging it through life, but now that I’ve got the steady paycheck sucking at the government’s sour teat, that jacket feels good as fuck. Grass always seems greener.
Anyways, I am trying to encourage my inner-outlaw more, junkyard schoolbuses and homemade tattoos and David Allan Coe lyrics come to life. In fact, I gave myself my first homemade tattoo in a few years the other night, putting WORK in scrawly sketchy letters, because I decided to put it underneath my right arm up top near my armpit, so I had to use my left hand, which ain’t my alpha hand at all. Still, it adds feng shui to the warped temple that is my body. I should have a good thick coat of grime to my jeans by springtime when the scrawly black ink becomes exposed to this goddamned straight ass world again.
STEAL “Ball And Chain”
NEXT UP: Outlaw scumfuckery!
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