I have been working my... my pedals to the... I have been working like a rented mule, friends, trying to excite my rods and cones. I have lurked in well-peopled areas like the pick-up window at Walgreens. I have staked out coffee shops where latte addicts are likely to have put on something over their tattoos in anticipation of, at some crucial caffeine/lymph ratio, feeling as if they might live one more day. Knowing that young people, driven by unspeakable hormones, might still harbor enough will to live and have meaningless sex that they butter themselves and put on jeans and eyeliner, I shamelessly cruised our local institutions of higher learning and hookups. Nuthin. Uggs. Fake Uggs. Salt-stained, slumped over, hopeless Uggs. And snot-crusted fleece.
Oh wait -- that was mine.
Anyhoo, there is a bleakness, a universal attitude of despair as sodden and heavy and methadone-soaked as a Friday night in Blaine. Such that, grunge (above left), the sartorial language of nihilism, actually perked me up. Indeed the ripped stockings, limp flannel, the ironic wolf-motifed t-shirt and our lad's chlorox-it-your-own-effin-self 'do and i-did-not-photoshop-those-pins gave me a warm happy feeling. Thank you my who-cares mofos. I am so awful glad you left your dorm room today.