The smell of rotting ass met with the vibrissa of my nose and a strange discomfort ensued. Normally when I smell another’s stench I laugh, pull my shirt over my nose and run. It is okay if I have to smell the peeping starfish of a buddy, a mate but an unfamiliar person’s poop shooter odor I do not mess with. I even hold my breath when I walk to close to strangers just because I don’t want to smell their personal musk. What about my own recipe? Love it! I have always enjoyed a good shredder. You know, one that makes your eyes water.
One day something else happened to me. I think, really, it was a culmination of events that lead to me smelling this particular offensive redolence. This fart was an insult to me, aimed at me and delivered with grace and poise. This was meant as a sucker punch by a vindictive old lady. It had to be, that is the only scenario my mind can except as truth.
I had just smoked a lot of hash, hey I’m from Colorado lay off, and was wandering around the aisles of Costco. Costco is a mega whole sale store that threatens to eat everything around it. I had given a buddy a lift there so he could buy snacks for his poker games. As he shopped I roamed about, aimlessly. I think I was staring into Deep Space located securely in a pile of cheap jeans when out of the corner of my right eye came a smear of black and red that stopped on the other side of the table littered trousers from me. This instantly pulled me out of my time traveling ways. This little old gal locked eyes with me in an epic stare down for the ages.
When I first meet people I don’t like to stare them in the eye for extended periods of time, if I am shaking your hand or talking to you I will meet eyes but I do not stare long. I find it uncomfortable to stare in strangers eyes for more than 10 seconds at a time. I have been given shit for this time to time like at new job or what not. Hey I keep to myself and I’m polite so I don’t see what the problem is. Recently I had started a new job and as I became friendly with my coworkers one of them said that same thing to me. Armed with the recognition of that fact, I realized this moment in Time would be perfect to work on my social awkwardness. So I decided to visually eviscerate this stranger. I gazed deep into those nearly cataract eyes as long as my soul would allow her act of terror to hold me in its clutches.
Five seconds, ten seconds, I could hear the sweat pushing through my pores, to look away became the only option my reeling mind could handle. 15 seconds… Oh fuck, this lady is creeping me the fuck out. 20 SECONDS!!! Oh shit!!! The big blink came, I broke first. I had too. I could no longer stare at this old woman’s erroneous pencil tipped eyes. I lost that impromptu stare down, I looked away for less than a billionth of a nanosecond but I was all too late. When my eyes returned to her Manson Lamps It was over, she stared at me for about two seconds more then made a strange face and walked away.
Instantly a wave of shame washed over me, I am a looser, I cannot even win a simple stare down but then something else then washed over me. It was fart! A plain and simple, good old fart. Then it hit me, I just got farted on by a little old lady, on purpose! When she departed ways with me she left very scornfully with a scowl on her face. I called out to my buddy who was just walking up on the scene if he had farted. No was the reply that lead me to conclude that I had just been assaulted by a flatulent old bag! She just napalm raided me like any good imperialist does.
I don’t believe she just came over and just happened to fart on accident. For one thing she left the way she came and didn’t take any of the pants that seemed to be the focal point of our meeting. Maybe she is a stare down expert who travels around expelling flatus on anyone who loses in her unofficial contests. I think not. I believe she came over to stare at my soul and judge me in good Christian fashion then fart on the Devil. It’s a little different then shouting at the Devil I suppose.
Why do I jump to this conclusion? Because this sort of thing happens to me, fuck it happens to any rocker. I happen to usually wear one color and that color is black. Christians associate that color with Satan worship and I was covered in it, I even had black socks on. I have had people start yelling at me all over Denver about Jesus. They always look me up and down then make their judgments; if they are unsure then some will come flat out and ask if I worship the Dark Father. If I am feeling peppy I will usually turn the tables and rant like a southern preacher about anti-theism, and how my way is full of love and the way of Jesus is full of hate. I think I will blame the victim here a little. When I became a punk I knew I was going to make myself a minority. Fuck, I wanted to. That was the purpose, to show I rejected everything the majority of Americans held important. I wanted for most people to look at me and cringe. I fully accept the reaction that my attitude it invokes. You hope to open minds but usually you just become a target. Granted I am not some young green mohawked ne’er-do-well flipping off the general public. I feel I am pretty reserved in my middle age. I do still wear a studded vest with a rad Extinction of Mankind back patch, have a few piercings and occasionally die my hair but I am not the traffic sign I use to be. Even if I dress nice it seems I can’t drop it, I am this way no matter what I wear or what my surroundings are now.
I went to a cabaret show with a friend named Anna. I was dressed in a god damned suit with my hair combed, I was looking sharp, sharp enough the waitress even hit on me. We were seated in the middle of the room behind a couple bachorlette parties and a few people on their first dates. The emcee came out and started to tell some jokes and get the crowd warmed up before introducing the different acts. In between one of these acts he came out and said in his fake but well- rehearsed Spanish accent “We have a lot of beautiful women in the crowd tonight.” He pointed over to an attractive lady and the spotlight followed his cue. Then he said “and here is another beautiful woman.” And the spotlight once again followed his finger and lit up another middle aged gal and everyone applauded. The he yelled out “and look at this foxy gem” and the spot light goes onto a woman in her 80’s. The crowd laughed riotously and you wonder what could happen next to possible top that. Well, let me tell you. That is when he uttered “and look at this beautif….ohhh!?!” just as the spotlight bathed me in its glorious postulance. The whole crowd vigorously slammed their palms together and laughed at what was paradoxical of a handsome woman, me.
Okay, okay that’s great but it happened again a few months later but instead of thirty people pointing and laughing at me it was over a thousand. Me and Anna went and saw Cirque du Soleil, Quidam and it was awesome. I have never seen anything like that. We were seated front row for this spectacular event. We could not believe our luck as to our seating and with great anticipation we sat down as the nights festivities began. After many amazing performances an old time clown mime hybrid appeared and he started to silently act out the same gag that had happened at the cabaret show.
The mime would point at a pretty girl in the crowd, make big boob hands and the spotlight would come down and highlight a young lady in the crowd squirming in discomfort and the audience would go into hysterics. I as soon as I saw this I knew it, I knew to a tee what was going to unfold by the end of this escapade. As the mime made his way through the different stages of the gag, all I could think was poor Anna has to be plopped down next to the freakish mutation that apparently sits polar opposite of attractive on the beauty scale.
When I glanced to my left and saw that big spotlight land on another unsuspecting grandmother out with her family for a night of fun. I just closed my eyes, tried to shrivel lower in my seat and let my head sag a little. As I sat there trying my Zartan hardest not be noticed the mime went right on with his stupid act. Suddenly bright oranges laced with brilliant reds and purples lit up the back of my eye lids. Once again I was in the spotlight living out my role in this lame joke. I opened my eyes smiled and politely nodded to the idiot on the stage. There was an attractive female squeezed into her designer clothes seated next to me so the mime grabbed her and brought her up on stage.
What are the chances I would get to be part of the same gag within a couple of months of each other? I just attract it. Do not think I am crying about it. Sometimes it gets old, being the scapegoat with Up Yours scrawled across his shirt that is so well illustrated on that old poster that adorns the walls of probation officer’s, principal’s, and social counselor’s rooms around the country. The classic punching bag. What’s funny is I love it, I am here on purpose. As I ride my bike downtown I know I would cleanse myself in a thousand old women ass bombs over and over again rather than except any of this system as legitimate. I love it when some dick wipe driving down the street in his S.U.V. yells faggot at me. It surprises me that I can elicit that sort of brain damaged response just by my outward appearance. There is no way I cannot be a punk and I don’t even know what that is anymore. But it is in everything I do from how I take a shit to how I shop for groceries. It is better to keep your mouth closed and have people think you are an idiot than it is to open it and prove them right. (Attucks)