Poseurs and Beer Thieves

beer magnetPoseurs and Beer Thieves

We were all waiting for the band to play. The park was filled with lots of guys who should have kept their shirts on for another reason than it being October.

The barefoot blond dreadheaded lead singer perpetually hopped from foot to foot whilst stroking and tapping a Pringles can like a Tibetan singing bowl.

A skinny-as-a-beef stick kid displayed a constant plumber’s butt.
Don’t you have to be fat for that?

Food Not Bombs was all set up but not many partook. Feeding people is always better than blowing them up but no one seemed impressed.
They would rather wait in line for a ten-dollar bowl of macaroni and cheese at Noodle Express. It seems the general public will accept food from free-range organic nose-ringed lime-haired leftist hippie punks only if it’s inside a shiny co-op with sneeze guards.

loweredA group of guys nearby were chatting entirely in Greek (at least that’s what it was to me) until they suddenly all started inexplicably singing (in English) Mad TV’s “Lowered Expecta-ations…” as they stopped to watch a plump woman bound in a tube top like a tight rubber band wound around a water balloon. They then began making plans in with her to go rent “that Will Smith and Martin Lawrence movie, you know, the sequel to Bad Boys, whatever it’s called”

“You mean Bad Boys II?” the girl said helpfully. “I saw it. It’s not really good, but it is, you know?”

“No, I do not.”

“You know, it’s bad but it’s still good.”


She tried again. “It wasn’t a good movie but it was still entertaining.”

“So… it was good?”

“Yes, but no.”

“What?” I stopped listening.

There’s always a small group of youngsters, probably from a nearby unincorporated village, led by one guy all punked out with a mohawk, un-used leather cockrings around his wrist, and fresh razor slashes in his brand new jeans, swaggering around while the other incredibly normal keeping-the-status-quo kids follow behind at a respectful distance.

monkey ladyI don’t really have a problem with poseurs. At least they’re trying.
Appearing as ubiquitously always: the Cro-Magnon monkey lady in the dirty red Capri’s and grey head scarf whose only activity seems to be purchasing cigarettes.

The same skinny black guy rode by three times: ON A DIFFERENT BIKE.

I looked around the smoke-free patio at all the people who probably won’t have sex me and drank a warm half glass of beer that somebody had left. The guy sitting at the table next to me still hadn’t turned around or taken a break from his rapt attention on the single Pringle drum circle so I drank his beer, too.

The band came ready to play the same song played different ways. It was okay. The drummer had some really good musician sex faces. Nobody in the small crowd seemed all that worked up, except the one guy who started looking around for his beer.

I made my way to the restroom and bought a whole bunch of novelty condoms. Just in case.

The dreaded hippie had just started the next version of the last song when I dove back into the sparkling hot city and dogpaddled away.

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