It is All Over for Me

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:

5/9/14

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.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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