I was originally going to post another 7-paragraph,
intentionally-ranting, obnoxious Facebook status about this random,
having-to-do-with-nothing memory that just popped in my head. Then I
remembered I have a blog (and a podcast) that is intended for my inane
ramblings, and this is a good thing, for passive-aggressive statuses
screaming "Pssh, you old, retarded Fuck-A-Tron, Facebook isn't YOUR
THERAPIST!!!" would likely follow, or I'd get one of those smart-alec
comments underneath the oversharing status that end up getting more
"likes" than your original post. That really is the Price Is Right fail
horn of life, right there.
Staying true to the "Fucking hell I'm an awkward dork-butt" theme, Rush became a huge part of my life in my early 20's. My early 20's were screwed up like anybody else's, but I didn't really outwardly look weird. Some would say I was once maybe-sorta kinda "cute". Meh. It's like trying to turn the universe inside-out when you tell a human being who feels like an extremely strange muppet-butt on the inside to look and feel "sexy"! That shit comes easy for some folks, and god bless them. I envy those people. It must be, like, relaxing, or free up your mind to focus on other shit, to be totally ok with who you are.
Anyhow, Rush. Oh, boy, did I go all out fangirl for them. Still do. I have a freakin' Rush tattoo on my arm that people tell me is supposedly there for the rest of my life. Huh. That's funny, because permanence was definitely not on my mind when inkin' up or walking down the aisle to get married. That's sarcasm, and if I have to tell you twice, go away, oh, but grab me a pineapple smoothie and a wheatgrass shot and an e-cigarette should you choose to come back, asswipe.
This was before their Beyond The Lighted Stage documentary that quickly ended up being everyone's favorite Saturday-morning-hangover film, because VH1 Classic replayed it like every Saturday for 387 Saturdays, or something, it might have been 784 Sundays. Things get mixed up. There was a tragic shortage of cool Rush gear, especially for chicks. So I'd end up making a lot of my own Rush merch, with iron-ons that you could print out through your computer. My favorite was this bad-ass Power Windows shirt I made, on a dark charcoal girlie tank with this supreme image on the front:
Then, one night, all proud, I stupidly wore it to the Rainbow. And proceeded to get the Lecture Of All Lectures about what is acceptable rock music to listen to and what's not. And, oh, my god. Butt metal gets enough crap, but it lives on and on and on and on and on forever and always will at the Rainbow Bar and Grill. So, for instance, a Bang Tango shirt would be acceptable. Prog is more artistically/critically acceptable to some degree, but in most normal social situations you'll be made fun of for that, too. I mean, it's not like you take a chick home and immediately put on like, Gentle Giant or Camel for the evening's love-making soundtrack. Can you imagine? I love butt metal, prog, shitty boy bands, and 70's AM pop hits, so my music defense armour is pretty darn thick. Plus, I just don't give a shit. Never really have, and this is getting worse with age.
So I'm outside on the patio, you know, stone-cold sober as it always was in those days, and this greaser-hipster dude starts talking to me. Then he noticed my uber bitchin' homemade Rush shirt and got, like, legitimately angry. Like, it really disturbed him. Which I guess is understandable. There's this cute young chick and BOOM! It's like the homemade Rush shirt was a scarlet letter of HURDEE-HURR-FUCKER-I-LISTEN-TO-MATH-ROCK-AND-PEE-THE-BED or something. This is more or less how The Anti-Prog Lecture of 2003 went:
Grease-Ass: "Rush?! Oh, my god...are you serious with that? What did you....did you pick that up at a thrift store? Please tell me you're being ironic."
Me: "Haha, actually, no. I legitimately like them, a lot."
Grease-Ass: "Do you have a problem listening to GOOD, ASS-KICKIN' rock and roll that's just in 4/4?!"
Me: "No, not at all, I..."
Grease-Ass: "WHY DOES EVERYTHING YOU LISTEN TO HAVE TO BE IN SOME FUCKED UP TIME SIGNATURE?!?!!"
Me: "Dude. No. Not at all. I just like...."
Grease-Ass (shouting at this point): "OH, HI, LET'S MAKE THE MOST COMPLICATED MUSIC EVER TO EXIST IT'S SO BAD! IT'S SO ROBOTIC!!! WHY DO YOU LIKE THIS?!"
Me: "Dude. I LOVE 4/4 rock n' roll, you have..."
Grease-Ass: "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH JUST 4 ON THE FLOOR ROCK AND ROLL!?!?!?!?!"
Me: "Nothing, dude. Calm..."
As he's screaming about 4/4 rock and roll, he harshly stomps his cowboy boot so hard on the ground, like Tommy Lee or Alex Van Halen would be TOTES JEL of the conviction and hard-core force this dude had, and I swear the concrete might have started cracking. Oh, and he was also clapping his 4/4 rock and roll, fuck-shit-fuck-shit rhythm like right in my face and looking me dead in the eye all intense, almost like he was on a mission to exorcise that asshole 19/4-loving demon in my soul OUT so I could just goddamn enjoy REAL ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL. I was buzzed and probably not as scared as I should've been. Never in my life had I wanted to laugh so fucking bad, but I knew that wouldn't be good news for the remainder of the night, so somehow I bit my lip and kept it in, as I'm getting a lecture about my horrific and offensive prog rock habits by this...dude.
Thankfully by this point I'm done with my cigarette and say, "Dude. I dig Sex Pistols and Aerosmith too," walked back inside, and the Grease-Ass, as far as I could tell, looked like I just slapped him in the face.
Some of my smarter friends have asked me why I used to frequent places like the Rainbow and Club Vodka and crap. "You're too smart for that," they'd kindly say, which I appreciate now, looking back. Since I feel like a complete moron 99.9% of my life.
Perhaps I was "too smart". I dunno. I'm glad I partook, though, because then where would stories about prog-hating Grease-Ass come from? A toad's butthole? A chipmunk's scrotum? A piper's fiddle? Pssh, I think not.
