Wednesday, July 18, 2012

You're Not Going to Make it After All!



Attention future baristas of America, leaving Cleveland(or any other culturally rich enclave of the flyover) to head for the east coast is less of a pipe dream and more of a toilet aspiration. We all know them. The bright shining stars who think riding the subway is some sort of magical ride on the back of a mythical graffiti covered dragon, who think hailing a taxi is akin to fighting a bull in Madrid, who think dipping one toe into Harlem grants them a ghetto pass. They tire of their menial office jobs, their boring friends who don't watch the Sundance channel, and their crappy apartments that run them a whole 600 bucks a month for above third world living conditions. They long to blog about their exciting adventures using wi fi in a Greenwich Village coffee shop(without even buying a drink, those rebels!), smoke a joint with a weird hippie in the shadow of the Lincoln memorial, or subsist on nothing but naan and Nutella in their squalor ass apartment that they share with five other lost souls. They schlep their barren, cobwebbed wombs all over town wishing they could meet a "real man"(not the sports obsessed workaholics of Ohio, but a hetero version of McDreamy prancing around Ground Zero). To them, life is an Amy Adams movie where a scone given to them by a wise old Jewish woman unlocks the secrets to their true boundless potential. Then when you come to visit(which they practically beg for every time you talk to them) they can act like a big shot who knows where they sell the really authentic Azerbaijani peasant soup(not like the fake crap in Ohio) and act so bored by all the tourist traps they take you to. Yes, these ex pats are the most annoying people in those big cities. They ask how things are back home(even though they just came home for Christmas last month so mom and dad would give them money) and say, "yeah, I just couldn't be ME there." Fucking twats is what they are. And here is your come uppance, twats.

They are mostly delusional girls reared on SATC or gay boys( whom I don't blame one bit. I know that homophobic strongholds like Minneapolis, Austin and Denver can be stifling to that dream you have of creating the best set design ever for Mama Mia ). Though I have known a handful of straight men to leave for greener pastures, it is usually for a woman. Which is acceptable. So is moving for a job. But moving to a coastal city just to be part of a scene is sadder than showing up underdressed at a fancy party. You look pathetic. This kind of behavior was very prevalent in my early twenties. Back then I watched everyone come back home with their tail between their legs in utter defeat some four years later. Now there is a new wave of thirty somethings who want to chase that checkered cab fantasy, because they can't stand being an adult. Nothing worse than someone trying to hang out in a scene they are too old for. Ever see pics of Tony Bennett at Studio 54? Yeah. That's you. Sorry folks, grown up life is pretty routine. Running away to Brooklyn(how tired is that place anyway?) or Frisco or Boston isn't going to change that. Unless you plan to go into porn. And most of you aren't attractive enough to even be in porn. They think if they knock on the front door of the White House, Basketball Barry will just usher them right into their corner office at the Department of Girls Smarter than their Grandma. "Would you like to try a larger size, maam?" Get used to saying that. That English degree you earned at Backwater University isn't going to land you that dream job at Cosmo.


They post pics of themselves in front of CBGB's(which I could hardly be bothered to look away from the porn I have open in another window to even care about). They post(to them) deep haikus about their revelatory life(or more often quote indie rock lyrics) in said megalopolis. They come home every three months to soak up the novelty of their home towns just so they don't "lose themselves" in the dizzying kaleidoscope of craziness they see in the "big city". Oh shit, a tranny fight outside of  Subway or some guy playing Beethoven on his keytar app outside of Yankee stadium! How. Utterly. Fucking. Amazing. I am in so much envy right now I can hardly stand living in my affordable house. Your Ipod has so many songs about your new life. "Tenement Girl", "Finding my Way in the Maze", "Metamorphosis f/ Rihanna and the L.A. Philharmonic". Omigod, you saw Freddie Prinze Jr. at Walgreens!! Let me just fasten my noose right now.

You might say "sour grapes, eh Mau?" "You're just mad that you're stuck in Cleveland." I say, lick my shaft, loser. I have travelled the whole country. The WHOLE country. From LA to Dallas to Hannibal to Richmond to Philly. You know what I found out? They all have Targets. Well, not Hannibal. They all have illiterate local news anchors, cool neighborhoods(and gentrified yuppie hell holes), and amazing food! And also shitty food. Lots of shitty food. And lots of shitty bands. Just like Cleveland. So why uproot myself to go live almost the same life somewhere else just because I saw it on the Travel Channel(the dumbed down app of cable networks)? But shouldn't people follow their dreams? Sure, if you have the talent or perserverence to make that dream reality. Here's the sad truth. 99% of you don't. If you want to really matter, and I mean MATTER...grow up, get real, and contribute to the place you're from(except for Detroit, get the fuck out of there). Or else get used to packing that IHOP uniform when you come home to dullsville to do your laundry.

And just remember, when you leave Cleveland, you're the same as this guy.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Auto Neurotic Ass Fixing n Aching

Just caught this episode of Married with Children where Al tries to keep his beloved rust heap alive. It reminded me, in this sweltering July, of the countless beyond countless hours I spent helping my hardheaded dad work on crustbucket Delta 88's and other ancient models of American made nightmares of the open road. Some of my least favorite memories(but in hindsight, ridiculously funny) of dear old Pa were forged in the garage. Well, halfway in the garage. We had so much crap in there that the cars usually only fit just enough into it so that I constantly had to duck or smack my greasy teenage forehead against the bottom of the garage door.

 It wasn't the way one saw the Beaver or Ricky Nelson working on cars with their dads. No lemonade from a doting wife, no precious life advice passed down from father to son, no purring of a finely tuned engine. It was swearing, cigarettes, beer and or coffee, sweat, farts, swearing, tears, and holding stuff in place in lieu of clamps(all the while wishing I was in my room watching Mtv, or more likely exploring my hormone saturated teen body). And ultimately utter failure. I got yelled at for not being able to distinguish metric sockets from standard ones(why the fuck did American cars have metric parts?), I had to test drive cars with no brakes around the block, go to the autoparts store for parts(not a real hot chick hang out), or go out for more cigarettes. Marlboro Red, hard pack. You don't know how often hearing my friends order that same kind of cigarette brings back flashbacks. It was either brutally hot when doing something as complicated as a brakejob, or pretty near freezing and dark around seven at night in November(when I probably should have been doing homework or, you know, eating my dinner). The relief I felt when the job was finally over is still greater in my mind than when I punch out of work now as an adult. Dad was my first asshole boss.

In the end, the knowledge I gleaned from dad about fixing cars is next to nothing. I know you are supposed to cuss, ask God why he saddled you with such a worthless child, or mutter something about wd40 with a smoke dangling from one's lips. Do I know how to change a sparkplug now? What the fuck does a sparkplug even look like? I think it's like lightning bolt shaped or something. Can I change a tire? Sure. But that's something I learned myself. Do I loathe the smell of gritty degreasing hand soap? I would fill my worst enemy's mouth full of that crap before I lower a 1990 Caprice full of fishing tackle onto their heads as they lay unsuspecting on a mechanic creeper. What a fitting name for  that usless un- skateboard. They probably named it that, because mechanics always slide out from under a hot babe's car on one to catch a quick glimpse of her panties as she hovers nearby in desperation to get her car back. Do I want to shoot automatic weapons fire into oil filters when I see them? Duh.

Yet, despite all this unpleasantness, I would not trade those experiences for anything. Not being a rich Romneybot who probably never had to touch a wrench in his life, not being a closeted teen homosexual who would duck dad by just living at drama club practice( and going on to later success as a major Hollywood star), nor being a msicreant child who would completely ignore their parents' requests. Because....it made me a MAN. With a capital fucking M. You learn dad is pretty much full of shit, but he means well. You learn that mechanics are crooks to never ever be trusted, and that swearing is probably the greatest free pleasure we still have as Americans. That driveways are where real men bond(not golf courses). That  dad has lots of cool stuff you can use to steampunk your boring action figures. That the neighbors are all supreme buttholes. That food tastes a million times better after starving through three hours of boredom and frustration trying to install a new exhaust. Man shit. Thank you, Pa(and Al Bundy) for those times. And for teaching me ways to swear I had never even dreamed of.