Well, good morning, all you shiny, happy people. That’s a lot of commas.
Allow me to set the mood…
This is the greatest debut album in the history of music. I can almost imagine the midnight journeys of Del & Axl navigating the Los Angeles wasteland in search of whiskey. The mid-eighties were a special time.
I knew if I waited long enough, someone or something would set me off into writing. The problem is, my typical flow will tiptoe through the subject matter a bit more than usual. This involves family, and family reads these rants (although they shouldn’t; it will inevitably hurt their feelings).
Let’s face it. I MUST be truthful in my writings regarding ALL things. Otherwise, the mask slips, and I’m a cuck-fake like most. We can’t have that, Precious.
I grew up in a time when physical attractiveness ruled supreme. If you didn’t look like the guys and girls in the music videos, then you weren’t cool, and people would kick the shit out of you. Ah, middle school. Good times; good times.
That was right about the time when my teeth grew into the rest of my face and I began to grow a glorious, sometimes referred to as legendary mullet. Add a Def Leppard blue jean jacket, and there you have it. I was so goddamn lost. I’m certain I wasn’t alone.
My son, whose friends refer to him as Young Sheldon (and he owns it), has the most beautifully flowing, mid-eighties hair I’ve ever seen on a kid. Lucky for him, the majority of the world has moved on from collective, outward narcissism…
Break for a throwback joke: Do you know how to prove to your haters that you’re not a true narcissist? It’s easy. If you get that squiggly line beneath it whenever you type the word “narcissist”, then you’re not. I believe true narcissists pride themselves in it, sort of like how women suddenly claimed bitch in the early 2000’s (it wasn’t attractive, btw). If I were a narcissist, I’d learn how to spell it correctly on the first try. Now, know I’m running back through this paragraph and spell-checking them all. Yep; squiggles.
…and no longer cares if you’re pimply, fat, stinky, etc. Do kids even still inquire how big each other’s dicks are? Everyone seems “accepted” in the groups of younger kids coming up through the ranks. My son heard Weird Al sing “Fat”, and thought it was one of the most offensive songs he’d heard in eleven years of living. When he turns eighteen, I’ll introduce him to 2 Live Crew and blow his fragile mind. For now, I’ll let him hang onto that innocence. It’s so beautiful. Some of us were robbed as children. MTV was a double-edged sword, but a gift from the gods.
Another quick pause, and a lesson: I spent my entire life listening to Axl on this album. Trust me; you’ll know if you ever hear me sing. It is what it is. Now, in year-three of my guitar journey, I’m listening to Izzy Stradlin’s rhythm. Heavenly. How can people live their entire lives through a single perspective? Heroes love the taste of villainy and vice versa. Shoplift Amazon.
Since moving to the city, I’ve noticed pockets of society who still abide by the tropes set forth by such influential jewels as The Goonies, or any character introduced within the first fifteen minutes of ANY slasher film. The “Park Cities” aka Sundown Town: The Parking Lot Pop-Up Carnival, are full of poons who were never cool enough to be a part of the Ski Patrol in a John Cusack film, but they got Brewster’s Millions when daddy died. They believe they smell terrific.
If your DNA hails from such incestual filth, or even half of it, I could see where there’s a bit of a negative influence when it comes to outward appearance choices.
“Heaven forbid that Bennie and Julie see Snookie without that “fresh from the groomer” shimmer!”
Fuck these people.
Back to it; my kid has a great mullet. He’s had a bit of a rough year at school, and we’ve gotten to know the staff a little more than I prefer. I come from a family of teachers, after all. Good for them; not my thing. I’m way too honest to be a teacher. I’d last a day.
When I said my “baddie from another daddy (trade-mark pending)” is a smart kid, I meant he’s one who prides himself more on education than the barber shop status quo. His preferred length and style gets in the way during the learning experience, so he uses hair clips to hold it from his face. It’s a rather practical solution.
Why? Why not cut it? Because fuck you, that’s why. I said it was his preferred length and style. Schools, like most jobs, are under the false impression they somehow own every moment of your life, insisting they influence your decisions throughout the off-hours. Bottom line – school is only a part of his day. There’s no such thing as a school kid. They all just hope you’ll never question the moniker and transition flawlessly into a work person.
When my son exited the vehicle, the authority figure who drew the shortest-straw sucked the happy from my morning peace bubble.
“Are you going to keep those clips in?” he asked.
Like a predator to prey, I shot eyes at this man as though he’d harmed my pup. In those sudden eyes-aflame, he did. Repressed feelings jockeyed my personal way-back machine to my frontal lobe, and anger filled my veins. This person was giving off way too much of a serious step-dad vibe on a Friday morning, pinging my literary vomit-radar. This poor bastard. I’ll never see him the same again.
I’ve double-checked Dallas Independent School District hair rules, and even compared it to memories of other whimsical hairstyles witnessed in the drop-off line, and I’m not sure why this was even a question. No “good morning”? No “hello”? No jerking me around to have a good day, knowing goddamn well you give two poops and a poke either way?
This is also the same person leading the charge against any behavioral issues throughout the school year, and I now question his motives. Of all the shit an urban, blue ribbon, talented and gifted, magnet school should worry about in the era of Donald Trump, why are they so focused on two hair-clips?
I’m trying to prevent my mind from going there, wherever there may be, but it’s honestly already there. I might as well go ahead and put this person’s name on the list, because I’m not sure my inner child will ignore the trespass.
So many bad things in the world; it could all end with us, and I mean that in a positive way. It’s the hushed whispers between small groups at funerals who incite change; one death at a time. The race card is too easy; it’s not my style. No, I want to know what your parents did to you. Let’s linger in that playground a bit, shall we? Playground’s Linger; that’s a band name. Still not as good as Guns N Roses, though.
The Gonzo Wolf 
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