Before.
After.
No, I'm not that fat, yet. Before we proceed, if you hate this post, blame the Duchess; the kernel's hers. If you love it, credit yours ugly. So, lopped off the long(ish) because I was tired of it & thus sliced my morning prep time from 45 to 15 seconds thus tripling productivity thus tripling my winning the future winnings here I come Space Casino, which led to a smarmy yet presumably good-natured barb from guess who about whether the power of Metal [ed. note: but not power metal, that stuff sucks, & no, Maiden doesn't count 'cause they fucking rule. More on them later] lies in the coiffure.
All groups, cliques, drone operator knitting clubs, anarchist chimney sweep brigades, even if there isn't a heavy social element due to many of us being borderline nihilists who love life, an awesome paradox if we had all bought pot from Donald Sutherland, have a uniform that we at least piecemeal gravitate towards when not shackled by The Man, everyone au moins a little unless you don't in which case congrats Mr &/or Mrs Three Piece Pantsuit Grindcore teach me your imaginary iconoclast wisdom.
The residue from tribal conditioning's youthful birth still lingers; blame my hermetic tendencies, but 'tis vaguely straunge when mine eyes see The Kids of the Campus wearing Maiden & Cannibal Corpse shirts that picture albums released before they were born [ed. note: no one wears Tomb of the Mutilated ironically], & on females no less. [ed. note: shit like Let It Be threads doesn't count since that's as mainstream as Muzak in a shopping mall]. My concert going has run the gamut from nearly all-testosterone shows in the late 80s to now where the same, if not heavier, strains are a solid mix of dudes & chicks, so the world has indeed changed for the better for once you fucking hippies, because let's be honest, we hairy lumps ain't pretty.
Now, what of the workplace? Given that I, a 38-year old guy who on occasion still wears band shirts to the Towering Slab (which, according to the interneterati, means I've yet to become a grown-ass man), some properly assume that I've been grandfathered in; newer hires whose job duties also include a solid dose of public interaction do not arrive as if preparing for Wacken, troo. Et bien sûr, when the kvlt of darkthroning occurs during a
So, what's my point? None beyond fulfillment of today's posting quota.
14 comments:
buttons it is
All cotton with minimal iron-on badges and such as works, alsp.
P.S. Can I blame the Duchess for anything people don't like in my posting, too?
~
I'm sure you rock the new hair. I guess you are getting a little bit older (your still a decade younger than me though) but what the hell can you do about that besides beat yourself up with heavy metal music? Well you can accept it and bestow your wisdom upon the youngsters under your tutelage, that's what! :)
if, the official uniform of the CIA, huh. And sure you can, just be prepared to parry.
life, aside from the extra creak, I don't mind getting older; all this experience has taught me that I really don't know a goddamn thing, and I'll still be spinning Slayer when I'm scarfing down nursing home tapioca.
I see that everything is STILL my fault.
With the excision of the coif, come greater reflective powers, maybe? Shower your decades of wisdom vvpon us, O Metal Dad!
No matter how old I get (and, trust me, I've got a couple of decades on you) I still hate it when it's too hot to wear my black jeans and black turtlenecks. Already too jaded to be a hippie in the 60's, I preferred the term bohemian hedonist. I still do.
Don't you worry about having to shave your head every few days?
duchess, are you saying, in this court of your peers, that you are in fact *not* responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs?
You of all people should know that I know nothing about everything.
susan, if you ever start a band, you must call it Bohemian Hedonist.
No worries. Mr. King kindly lends me his spiked armband to scalp the day's catch over at Famous Ray's.
Are you going to leave your severed ponytail in somebody's bed that you don't like?
That would be very mafia and awesome of you...
((Hugs))
laura
A horse is a horse
of course of course
unless the horse is of course
the famous Mr. Graves?
Oh, I get it. That guy in the second picture didn't lose his hair; he just had it transplanted from his head to his arm.
...so the world has indeed changed for the better for once you fucking hippies...
Knew a dude once who looked like an older, post-Vietnam version of Forrest Gump's Captain Dan. He believed the world went into the crapper after Woodstock which he swore he attended.
Given the stories he liked to tell about it I do know the world is not as fun.
But what happens if/when it doesn't grow back in in some places? That's what keeps me from shaving the pate. I'm hanging on to the few strands I've left up top—but not, never never never ever, combing over.
I love my WFMU Radioheadlock tee shirt best, even tho' it's browning in the pits.
Randal, Joseph A. Bank thinks you've got an attitude. Guidance here. HTH!
tom, punk kills. Look at what happened to Sid Vicious.
BB, how many people attended Woodstock, 1.7 million?
jim, oh hell, I didn't go Picard. Kerry King was merely a vague illustration, and I think I still have at least a decade (I hope) before the combover becomes a discarded possibility.
I'm guessing once that gives up the ghost, any replacements are long out of print?
SWA, I've been hitched for nearly twenty, if someone, presumably a chick, doesn't dig my High on Fire shirt, hell with 'em. Once it's all gone, I really do need to help bring back the top hat.
Apparently, with the power of your hair at bay, the glare is not so bright as to allow me to read your delightful goo.
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