Emo Noir
“Its all about expressing yourself as an individual. Sure I come to these shows all the time but that doesn’t mean this is the only music I like, I’m into every scene.” And with that, the yuppie haired scummed signed his death warrant. 65, and I’m in a place where most of the occupants just started growin the ole short and curlies. I’m slumming tonight, don’t need anything high class tonight. Just a little place, with a little crowd, and a shitty band. ‘It bleeds screaming’, the bands these days. Whatever happened to actual music? John Lee Hooker, Frank Sinatra, Miles Davis, Johnny Cash, Clifford Brown, Vic Damone. Songs that actually sounded different from one another and carried a serious emotion. Now all you gotta do is get dumped and start a band. Teenage girls will be crawling all over you faster than flies on shit. The yuppie haired scum was sitting at a booth of this dive joint where all the “cool kids” go. I say kids cause he’s flanked on all sides by this months edition of “Scene GAP”, I say scum because these girls are 15-17 years old. He’s 30, easy. I’m sitting at the bar with my back to all this nonsense, pondering my choice of locals. Not really thinking what I was doing, I looked over my shoulder and fired off a question. “Every scene? So I guess that means you’ve heard of ‘Dead solid tears’?” A fake band. Non existent , spurious, falsified even. He’s got one of those hair cuts that no matter how he styles it, it will always look like he just woke up and threw on a pair of his last 13 year old girl friends jeans. He looks at me and says “Dude, you’ve actually heard of D.S.T? Come sit over hear man, you’re my new best friend.” Turning back to my drink, I haven’t even touched it. I say, very politely mind you “Lying dick”. He pipes up with “What the fuck did you just say, fag?” His little posse starts laughing uncontrollably. Shriek, nasal laughs almost drown out the trash-core or was it emo-core?
“I said you’re a pedofile, a sick fuck who can only get it up by fondling little girls Oh and you’re a pathological liar.” Now this is the part where he tries to look so up to date and me like an old guy. He gets up from the booth and walks over to my stool, with teenie’s in tow. “Listen old man, you don’t know what talking about? D.S.T is a real band. I saw them last week.” Its so hard to take someone who looks like Shirley Maclean with fetal alcohol syndrome seriously. I just now start sizing him up. 5'7 and a quarter. 149 and a half pounds. Right handed. Slight trembling means he’s gonna try to talk before actually fighting, not that he will be. “I wasn’t saying you’re a liar because of the band. I was talking about all the other things.” His brow furrows. “I’m sorry, I’m not a closet homo like you are.” This many gay jokes from some one this old. In one swift moment my hand jumps from my glass to his hair. With a swift yank it all comes off. A wig, a toupe, hair peace, a dead cat even. Shrieks and cries of horror come from his gaggle of groupies. “Well look at that!” I say “Who shot the rug?” With a dumb look on his face he swings his fist at me, like a six year old girl with paulsy. I catch him with my left arm and bring my glass into the side of his head, a sickening crack fills the room, then suddenly his head ways a couple hundred pounds and his knees give out. People stop dancing, conversations end, even the band stopped playing. “Now I ain’t gonna lie, I did that on purpose. But you being the man you are, had it commin. I mean how old are they? 14 at the most. Makes me sick, and another thing. Whats a guy like you doin in a place like this? Music made by kids with schizophrenia, your old enough to know Tony Bennett at least,” I open my wallet I throw a Franklin on the bar and one on him. “Get that head looked at and buy some good music, maybe then you wont have to resort to finger banging the prom queen.” With one hand on his head and a glaze in his eyes he says “Who the fuck are you?” I kneel down over his chest so I’m lookin him right in the eyes. “I’m the guy telling you how it is,” With that I stood up and walk to the door, no one got involved no one tried to play hero. Just when I thought I was gonna have my faith restored in teens I hear one of them say, “Kids with Schizophrenia, THAT WOULD BE A TITS BAND NAME!” Again, being as polite as possible. I spit in the kids face. To scared, to mortified, to disgusted, a pansy even. As my hand touched the door, the yuppy scum stood up and called out, “I’m gonna sue you for all your worth!” Without turning around I say “Thats not a whole lot these days. Me being so old, you might get a walker and a pack of depends.” I don’t turn around but I can tell he’s getting closer by his voice. So I light a smoke and wait, “How bout I just waste you then!” With burning smoke in hand, and with more speed than a 65 year old should have I spin around with a punch aimed at his face. Inches, hairs, millimeters from his eye is a burning cig. “I’d have to kill you.” He stands still with a bottle raised high in the air. “You know what happens when you put a ciggerette into an open eye? First it burns through the cornea, and with everyone quiet like this you could probably hear it bubble. Once it burns through that and the heat gets in your eye, its got a 60 40 chance of popping.” I back out of the bar and leave him standing there, lost and confused. As long as I can make one of them, even for a moment, feel like I do every day...Then I can be “happy.”
“I said you’re a pedofile, a sick fuck who can only get it up by fondling little girls Oh and you’re a pathological liar.” Now this is the part where he tries to look so up to date and me like an old guy. He gets up from the booth and walks over to my stool, with teenie’s in tow. “Listen old man, you don’t know what talking about? D.S.T is a real band. I saw them last week.” Its so hard to take someone who looks like Shirley Maclean with fetal alcohol syndrome seriously. I just now start sizing him up. 5'7 and a quarter. 149 and a half pounds. Right handed. Slight trembling means he’s gonna try to talk before actually fighting, not that he will be. “I wasn’t saying you’re a liar because of the band. I was talking about all the other things.” His brow furrows. “I’m sorry, I’m not a closet homo like you are.” This many gay jokes from some one this old. In one swift moment my hand jumps from my glass to his hair. With a swift yank it all comes off. A wig, a toupe, hair peace, a dead cat even. Shrieks and cries of horror come from his gaggle of groupies. “Well look at that!” I say “Who shot the rug?” With a dumb look on his face he swings his fist at me, like a six year old girl with paulsy. I catch him with my left arm and bring my glass into the side of his head, a sickening crack fills the room, then suddenly his head ways a couple hundred pounds and his knees give out. People stop dancing, conversations end, even the band stopped playing. “Now I ain’t gonna lie, I did that on purpose. But you being the man you are, had it commin. I mean how old are they? 14 at the most. Makes me sick, and another thing. Whats a guy like you doin in a place like this? Music made by kids with schizophrenia, your old enough to know Tony Bennett at least,” I open my wallet I throw a Franklin on the bar and one on him. “Get that head looked at and buy some good music, maybe then you wont have to resort to finger banging the prom queen.” With one hand on his head and a glaze in his eyes he says “Who the fuck are you?” I kneel down over his chest so I’m lookin him right in the eyes. “I’m the guy telling you how it is,” With that I stood up and walk to the door, no one got involved no one tried to play hero. Just when I thought I was gonna have my faith restored in teens I hear one of them say, “Kids with Schizophrenia, THAT WOULD BE A TITS BAND NAME!” Again, being as polite as possible. I spit in the kids face. To scared, to mortified, to disgusted, a pansy even. As my hand touched the door, the yuppy scum stood up and called out, “I’m gonna sue you for all your worth!” Without turning around I say “Thats not a whole lot these days. Me being so old, you might get a walker and a pack of depends.” I don’t turn around but I can tell he’s getting closer by his voice. So I light a smoke and wait, “How bout I just waste you then!” With burning smoke in hand, and with more speed than a 65 year old should have I spin around with a punch aimed at his face. Inches, hairs, millimeters from his eye is a burning cig. “I’d have to kill you.” He stands still with a bottle raised high in the air. “You know what happens when you put a ciggerette into an open eye? First it burns through the cornea, and with everyone quiet like this you could probably hear it bubble. Once it burns through that and the heat gets in your eye, its got a 60 40 chance of popping.” I back out of the bar and leave him standing there, lost and confused. As long as I can make one of them, even for a moment, feel like I do every day...Then I can be “happy.”