Friday Night Rants

Unbuttoned to mid-waist, sporting sparse chesthair, slicked back hair
high fiving over margaritas and Michelob ultras. Sasha and digweed.
Commiserating herd of girls, pedicured, the entire chanel counter
inventory plastered to their skin. Fake smiles and compliments.
Investment bankers, premed, prelaw, big firms, fortune five hundred
brown nosers, gung ho career yuppies, all the way big bang bank
accounts.

I order another drink. I’m wearing a tshirt and jeans. One of these
things does not belong, in amidst the prada and gucci and jcrew. ralph
lauren slacks and silk shirts.

I need another drink to assuage the banter, so I stumble down the dark
wooden stairs, watching the trendy pseudo-authentic decor, stuffed
boars heads sporting semi-alcoholic slogans. Benny the fat wild pig
gurgling “I need another beer and you’ll be OK”. Too bad his
decapitated cranium is lining the back of the bar.

Shoulder in through the herds, lean into the etched wood counter, deep
grooves and scars, laminated thrice over with imprints of dirty
dollars and corroded coins. Slick black-garbed bartended leans in,
ready and waiting, sheek like commerce. I imbibe and then a song,
Float On – Modest Mouse. It comes out of the jukebox lineup of 80s
rock ballads and alt rock, Dixie Chix karaoke and thrumming baseline
e-raver beats. Something known, something familiar, loved even.

This was my song, the last year of college, watching addiction,
watching things come to an end. Amidst the stunning finality of
off-campus living, late night binge sessions, brain dead allnighters,
pot fueled chill fests on the porch with the grill. Hallucinogen
catharsis. Empathetic summer loves.

And here I am, in some working world limbo, watching herds of yuppies
bounce to my song. Like every other Friday, under the urge of ethanol
and hormones, probably prescription designer drugs with slick
marketing campaigns. The urge to dull the brain, find a mate, fake
the procreation and avoid the std. Or maybe grab a harmless one for a
cocktail story.

But it rains and I leave, hearing those bouncing jolly beats, that one
happy indie song that managed to break the corporate barrier – breach
into commercial land and become minion to the yuppie herd.

I gotta get away.

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