I may as well get a blue tooth ear piece and a fuckin’ fanny pack because it is clearly curtains for me as a marginally with-it person. Although it would seem, and maybe this is another example of how out of touch with hip society I really am, that fanny packs are currently en vogue. I don’t know whether to shit or go blind. If there was ever a time where I was cool, that time is safely in the rear view mirror, and objects in the mirror are probably not closer than they appear. Maybe I’m deluding myself by thinking I had even a moment of coolness. Whatever it was and for however long it might have existed, today it was terminated with extreme prejudice.
I was driving to the gym this morning the usual ungodly hour of 05:30. It is a strange hour. The early crowd is heading to work while the late crowd is coming home from whatever it is they do, with weirdos and crackheads sprinkled in for good measure. During my drive my eyes are beginning to work as the high fat coffee I consume each morning starts to warm up the synapses in my brain. I listen to music and depending on what place I am in the morning wake up cycle it could be lively rock or it might be the classical music station and the soothing voice of my main shit stain Carl Grapentine. Today it was 93.1 WXRT and Lin Brehmer. WXRT is an excellent alternative rock station. It isn’t what it was 10 years ago but still pretty damn good when put up against the usual blather that passes for a station in this era. As I sat waiting for a green signal at Harlem and Randolph a new song began. I was swept up in the beat and the bass like a bathroom floor pube in a Hoover; I was powerless against its suction. My eyes narrowed and my head, as if acting on orders given by the music alone, began to bob. As the intro became verse my trance was savagely destroyed by his voice. It was unmistakably Chris Martin. I was headbeat, unknowingly, to, to……it was just, I mean, I can’t really understand what was happening….it, it, it was……..it was fucking Coldplay. Red rover red rover, your life is over. The self-loathing was so suffocating that I pulled off the road into a desolate parking lot and wept. I wept until my tears ran dry. I wept for the life which just officially ended. I wept for the plight of Gweneth Paltrow as a downtrodden famous tall hot blonde billionaire mom. I wept for the Nine Inch Nails album I bought when I was 15 that I knew I could never listen to again. I wept for the minivan that I now realized was an inevitability. I stopped weeping when the cop approached the window and tapped on it, checking to see if I was about to blow my brains out with an unseen piece. Knowing that I was already dead I laid my soul bare and told him what happened. He was ten years younger than me and thus recoiled in horror, then tried to hide his disgust and patted me on the shoulder and said “I hope things get better, sir”. He walked back to his cruiser where I’m certain he blasted some sort of cool music to erase my loserdom from his memory.
I don’t know what to say. What is the lesson in all this? I guess it is to enjoy your youth, kids. One day you are drinking beers at your home bar in college with your buddies talking about chicks you want to slay, and the next you’re sober at 5am fucking headbeat to the new Coldplay joint. I don’t even know what the fuck happened in between. May as well walk into the gym and sit my ass down on a recumbent bike and read a goddamn James Patterson novel while slowly turning the pedals. Join a fuckin’ fantasy football league. Start shopping for my wardrobe at Kohl’s. Not because I want to but because it makes too much sense. Celebrate my Kohl’s winnings with a feast at Olive Garden. Drink in the suburban mediocrity; let in ease down your throat. I tried to mount a counterattack by blaring some Sex Pistols and throwing weights around but to no avail. I knew the truth. The other gym patrons knew the truth. The odor of Coldplay acceptance hung thick about my person. You cannot run from that reality, try as you may. Mark it down:
The day my former self was slain by my new lame self. Gimme the new Coldplay joint, a Bud Light, let me get my cell phone tucked right in there nice and tight on my belt holster, and let’s head out to the new Guy Fieri restaurant. But we gotta get home early, I’m delivering Capri Sun and orange slices to the soccer game in the morning, in the Odyssey, bitch.