The
one thing I remembered about the whole experience was the narcissistic-- dare I
say it, an almost "religious impulse" to find THE
ONE TRUE ANSWER, "get on easy street", and glide off into an eternity of good,
status-conscious things with varying levels "of bad taste", if not hare-brained
schemes and Jim Morrison-style symbolism "that backfires for most". The signage
and symbolism of tribal grunts, eye flickers, and jittery ether takes on a
hyper-real, potentially ultra-punishing significance through the prism of social
anxiety, the lightning-fast complexity "of the hive mind" and rolling steam of
jaugernaut's hiss n' break. Obediance to hollow standards are false gods that
some may latch onto out of self-protection, but others "are not nearly so
sanctimonious" with the subcurrents that exist below "the official school line".
The futility "of goodness", a nostalgic world-view "yet betrayed", a sad nod; praytell-- a conspiracy with others "in the know"-- hurrying away from the darker, more horrific corners "for which you can do nothing" as loudmouths in the public square "grandstand" and exploit these truths selectively. Guilt. . . . . obeisance. . . . . fealty. . . . . shame. . . . . repression; THE THORN WITHIN. Pilgrims of the gulch, abandon you "where you lie". Nickel-scavangers n' "short-sells" and red-tape hardens the hearts of yellow shit-dog's.
For want of "a dream speech", that ends up coming out "angry and flustered"-- and you know that someone waves you off with a cut of their hand, if you could even "find the words to begin with", as maybe you're marched off to your degradation silently without reprieve as the bell tolls sadly for the fool's doom.
What one manages to do. . . . . is "sell out" everything that was simple and funny and golden before you were thrown in the cell-block of adolescence and felt that maybe, on some level-- "you had a knife to your throat" AND NEEDED TO TURN MEAN.
And don't you find it "ironic". . . . . that "Megadeth" outsurvived "Nirvana". DEATH TO THE LIBERAL INSECT.
*******************
"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
Drop "The Bard" a line at
michaeladams_s@yahoo.com