Velcrometer
Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
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M. Giant's Velcrometer Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks |
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Monday, August 19, 2002 Dear Trash’s Uncle: During our weekend in Iowa, it was nice to have the guidance of someone like yourself when we were “making the scene” in Des Moines’s famously vibrant nightlife. Thanks for knowing all the bars in Des Moines where the "cool people" hang out. Those places would have been a lot less entertaining than the places we actually ended up going to. Dear Des Moines sports bar: Thanks for having such a wide variety of alcoholic beverages on tap. With a selection that included everything from Budweiser to Bud Light, I was overwhelmed by the embarrassment of riches laid before me. I look forward to subsequent visits, when I plan to delve even deeper into the veritable telephone directory that is your beer list. There’s nothing quite like being awakened at five a.m. the next morning by a jackhammering Budweiser headache, and I am in your debt for making that experience available to me. Dear guy parked in front of the big-screen at the sports bar: I agree, John Carpenter’s Ghosts of Mars is a visually arresting tour de force of cinematic storytelling. I have nothing but respect for the way your attention was utterly riveted by every onscreen development, every transgressive image, every nuance of Natasha Henstridge’s multifaceted performance. Even without the benefit of sound or closed-captioning, you displayed a level of focus and concentration that would be the envy of any Lama, Shaman, or Jedi Knight. When the channel abruptly changed in the third act to a football game, you responded with nary a twitch. I could only assume that your spirit had entirely departed the corporeal plane, and reacted accordingly. Dude, next time? Give the guy behind you some sign that you’re still alive. Preferably before he starts CPR. Dear seven-piece country band playing at the Des Moines shit-kicker bar: Stop that. Just stop it. Dear Des Moines shit-kicker bar: My God, are you for real? Dear seven-piece country band still playing at the Des Moines shit-kicker bar: Stop it right now. I’m serious. Dear guy practicing his line dancing by himself: It’s admirable to try to hone a skill until you’re the best you can possibly be at it. But once you are the best you can be, you’re allowed to stop. Seriously. Maybe someone will be impressed that you’re able to click your bootheels together four times in one leap, but is that really the kind of person you want to date? Broaden your horizons a little bit, and I’m sure you’ll meet a nice woman who appreciates you for your finer qualities like your patience and determination. But not if her first impression of you evokes the image of a speeded-up leprechaun trying to perform the choreography from HMS Pinafore in its entirety in sixty seconds flat. And since you look like one of those little handheld trapeze artist toys anyway, you don’t have to start over every time you miss a step. Nobody noticed, I promise you. Actually, let me amend that. If you start over from the beginning one more time, I swear to God I’m going to push your face in. Dear seven-piece country band who will not stop playing at the Des Moines shit-kicker bar: Okay, I asked you nicely. Did you think I was kidding? When I paid my two-dollar cover charge, I was expecting some innocuous Alabama and Sawyer Brown covers in exchange for my hard-earned money. And yeah, there was that, but this? This? Which one of you seven morons decided that a good idea was to do a dance-club megamix extendo-version cover of the Beverly Hillbillies theme in the style of the Beastie Boys? Two days later, I’m still tortured inside my head by the sound of you repeating “Bub-bub-bub-bubblin’ crude! Bub-bub-bub-bubblin’ crude!” over and over again, for, like a half hour. There’s no reason for you to have left the place alive after that. I’m going to have to get that surgically removed, and I’m sending you clowns the bill. I don’t care if the keyboard player thought he was in a classic rock band, I don’t care if the fiddle player made less noise than I did, I don’t care if the bass player was the J. D. Salinger of live music, you’re all equally complicit in the scars I’ll bear for the rest of my life. And when the singer ripped the front of his shirt open all the way down to his gigantic belt buckle, came down off the stage, and gave some poor woman a lap dance, for the love of Merle Haggard, the rest of you all forfeited your claims to humanity by failing to throw down your instruments and storm out on the spot. And you do this every weekend? How is it that you’re still at large? Dear Minneapolis: Hi, there. It’s good to be home. posted by M. Giant 4:11 PM 0 comments 0 Comments:
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