Saturday, July 11, 2009

Greasy fish out of water.

Here are some random non-greasy things that I have done over the years.

Stupid Boats.
I'm a city boy and I don't like being in the boonies. I really hate swimming, and don't even like getting wet. Years ago, I was dating a gal who's folks had a house on a lake in the country. We would spend weekends there and party like frat boys. I think some of her cousins actually were frat boys.

After one especially mental Saturday night, I woke up with a king sized hangover. Grabbed a shower and a coffee and made my way down to the beach where everybody was hanging out. They were all in swim suits, playing sports and doing shit that was way to demanding for someone with a greasy hangover. I just sat in the shade with coffee trying get the cobwebs outta my brain.

They asked if I wanted to go for a boat ride. It was one of those fancy speedboats. They somehow convinced me, and I hopped in.

I couldn't remember being more bored. It must have been a ridiculous site. A bunch of people in swimsuits in a speedboat with a greaser in the middle, fully dressed including engineer boots.

I couldn't wait to get back on land. Thankfully, there was one bar in the whole town.


Not long ago, I had a job selling stereos. I befriended one of my co-workers who was brilliant car stereo installer. There was only one problem; that dude listened to nothing but hip-hop. All day, all night.

I would have to listen to hip hop 8 hours a day blaring from the massive stereos that we had in the store. It was starting to drive me nutso. They wouldn't let me play Rockabilly for fear of scaring customers away ( probably true).

The store was fairly quiet, so we had plenty of time to socialize. It turns out rappers have as much contempt for hippies as greasers, but all that hip hop was starting to affect me.

I started using phrases like " Wus crackin', dog?" and " lemme axe you sumthin".

Luckily, I got fired soon after that.

Stoopid Hippie Crack.

Most greasers eschew the use of marijuana. It's not so much the connotations of hippie-ness, it's just not the way we like to feel, not edgy enough.

In a town like Vancouver, however, it's hard to avoid. One night at a greaser garage party, some older guy that I know gave me a whole joint because he was leaving. I stared at the skinny cigarette and wondered what to do with it. Nobody at the party was a smoker.

In my drunken state I thought " I know, I'll smoke it" thinking that it could be similar to beer. Wrong.

I thought I was gonna fakkin' die. It made me kind of anti-social. I went back outside and had to lean on the garage for balance. I must have been there for an hour, just waiting for that stupid buzz to go away.

A lot of people were concerned, telling me I wasn't looking too good. I later found out that I was literally green in the face.

I felt like a bag of shit the next day, but I never did touch that stuff ever again.

What Do You Do With A Drunken Greaser.

I don't have a drop of Scottish blood in me, but for some reason, I love bag pipes. I used to go the Highland Games every year. They were held on the grounds of a mental hospital, so it could get a little strange at times.

One particular year, they had set up a booth that looked like an outhouse, It was painted blue and had a Cutty Sark Whiskey sign nailed to it. The guy inside was dispensing shots of whiskey.

I had befriended some pipers, and they regaled with impromptu bag pipe sound offs. All the while standing in the never ending circular line up at the whiskey booth.

I found out that day that it is not a good idea to drink with very large pipers and try to keep up.
It all became a blur of men in kilts and mental patients in white hospital robes nervously chain smoking.

I knew I had a car somewhere, but couldn't remember where exactly in that huge parking lot. I sat down under an oak tree with my plastic cup of Cutty Sark whiskey. When I woke up, all the pipers were gone, but the mental patients were still there, furiously smoking their cigarettes.

We Don' Need No Steenkin' Bongos.

Back when rents were dirt cheap, I managed to find a loft in a cool old building. It was pretty much all musicians living there , so there was always some rock'n'roll goin' on. One day, somehow, some hippie kids managed to rent the loft next to mine.

They were nice enough kids, but so dirty. The incessant bongo playing was starting to drive nutso. I guess they couldn't afford a stereo. They were from a small town and their hippie attire seemed contrived to me.

One Friday night there was a knock on my door, The head hippie was standing there. He was nice enough to inform me that they were having a party that night and it might get loud. He also told me that I was welcome to join them.

I had to get early for work the next day, so I wasn't happy at the prospect of not getting any sleep. I went to get a case of beer and came back home. The party next door was getting louder and louder as hordes of hippies began streaming in.

The trademark of all hippie parties began, the notorious drum circle. I was sitting in the dark drinking my beer and getting progressively angrier at every new addition to the numerous drummers.

That's when the beer logic kicked in; I could either sit there fuming and eventually end up losing it on some hapless hippie, or I could go over there and join them. I put on my western boots, grabbed the rest of the beer and headed next door.

I didn't have much to say and we didn't have much in common. I couldn't have a conversation with the rising crescendo of the drums. I saw an unattended conga said to myself " ah , screw it!" I grabbed the conga, sat on the floor and joined the circle.

Fueled by anger and beer, I began furiously pounding on those suckers. One greaser amongst all those hippies, two very pointy western boots sticking straight up in the air. I also wanted to show them how much they sucked. Those kids thought I was pretty good.

All that pounding began to take it's toll, I finished the rest of my beer and went to bed. I slept very well and haven' touched bongo since.

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