I was all ready to do a blog about the pro-wrestler Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake, since I recently used his name in the "name game," you know, when you name celebrities and "drink while you think." The name is a great one to use, because names with the same first letter for the first and last name reverse the order. Although, that one is a triple, so maybe the direction straightens back out, but anyway, more importantly, just uttering the name for the first time in ten years had me giggling all night. I did some research for the blog, and while I'm sure it would have been decent, I really just wanted to type the name Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake. And now I have, and I'll type it one last time for good measure. Brutus. "The Barber," Gosh-damn Beefcake.
Now for the actual topic: My summer job as a photographer of tourists has brought me in contact with a lot of interesting coworkers, but they all share one quality: They're all a hell of a lot younger than me. It kind of sucks being the old guy, and I was reminded of this the other day when one gal said that I am so "90's." I had never heard that before, but I guess it's the same as when I see a guy with a mullet and jean shorts and I say he's "so 80's." To this younger generation, the 90's were a time when they were little kids, like the 80's were for me, so they didn't really experience the times, in terms of fashion, pop culture, etc. You know what is REALLY mind-boggling to me? These kids weren't even alive when the Bears won the Super Bowl in 1986. They don't know shit about "The Fridge," "Mongo," "Butt-head," "The Junkyard Dogs," "The Black and Blues Brothers," or any of that stuff. When they were little kids No Doubt and Sublime were all over the radio. That's nostalgic for them. Weird . . .
So the other night I found myself partying with these 20-year-old art students, full of Keystone, which was what I drank at their age, and while admittedly drunk, I typed the following memo into my phone for future blogging purposes: "Wall-to-wall wiggers. Black people have always had a strong hand in popular culture, which has been a good thing. However, it has turned white, suburban America into a nation of wiggers." Okay, I know, that's not at all a PC term, in that it implies it's alright for me to use the n-word, which it's not. I just don't know another word for it, and it sounds good with wall-to-wall, just like Beefcake jives so well with Brutus "The Barber."
It wasn't just their wiggerness, but their not-yet-cultivated, embarrassing personalities that bothered me. As Richard, my Irish coworker, who is the same age as them, said: "They're a bunch of wankers." I saw one wanker wearing the same exact sunglasses (at an indoor party), Rolling Stones shirt (fucker probably only owned the greatest hits,) and do-rag at two straight parties. Yeah. I went twice, which I'm not proud of. Anyway, his name was "Smitty." NOBODY should be called "Smitty" until they are the old guy at the office. I got news for Smitty, he will be the old guy in office some day, but long before that he will be the wanker of the office. This guy was so darn serious about throwing ping-pong balls into plastic cups, you'd think it was the Olympics or something. No Smitty, not the Olympics, just the Wankerlympics.
I have to say though, I've been really crabby and unhappy with my life lately. Part of my hatred for these kids really stems from jealousy, and I'm not talking about being jealous of their ping-pong ball throwing. What bugs me about these kids is that they're so young and studying to do something creative with their lives, which is what I always knew I wanted to do, yet I settled to study more "practical" things. Well, now I'm "practically" broke and my only creative outlets are this rag that I write and my shitty guitar playing. One wanker I was talking to is studying to be a writer, and my first instinct was to doubt that this schmuck has to offer the world, since he too was a white kid with a do-rag and camouflage pants AND shirt. Who knows? Maybe he'll be the next Hemingway, maybe he'll fall flat on his wanker-face, but at least he's going for it. Meanwhile, this wanker is lamenting and drowning in his own hatorade. I just learned that term. Jeez, I AM "so 90's."