In a Utopian fantasy, the whole world would be greasy. The music would always be great, everybody would be cool and cars would be hot rods.
That, unfortunately, would quickly become Dystopian. I think that greasers, even though enjoying the life style for what it is, also sub-conciously enjoy being part of it for the simple fact that it is a sub-culture and is guaranteed to set them apart.
It is probably the last bastion of true rebellion. It is barely socially acceptable. One lone greaser will raise eyebrows. Three greasers will arouse suspicion and ten or more will completely perplex people and will be met with trepidation and fear. It also has the unsavory side effect of garnering unwanted attention from the cops.
Whenever I am removed from my greasy bubble and my greasy friends, the cold hard truth hits me like a punch in the head; it's a square world out there, and believe me, we are just as uncomfortable in that world as squares are in ours.
Thankfully, we all have our sanctuary at home with all the tunes, 50's paraphernalia, hot rod mags, guitars, hair grease, threads, all things greasy and whatever else may be required to make life comfortable.
The day to day reality means that we have to go out into the square world and interact. There are some situations and places that are downright uncomfortable. Others are just plain unbearable. Here's a partial list of shit I try to avoid.
1. Public transportation.
The proletariat chariot, the loser cruiser, call it what you will, it is challenging experience at the best of times.
A special brand of hell designed to break the spirit of the strongest among us, getting from point A to point B is never as easy as it seems. The poorly trained drivers will have you lurching back and forth like a drunken sailor and they sometimes accelerate so quickly that the lighter passengers will literally go flying.
You are jammed into a box with strangers and all the foul habits that some might have. It is always a revelation to find out the hard way that some people don't believe in bathing or soap.
Then there are all the people with varying levels of low IQ who somehow deem it acceptable to have loud, rambling conversations on their cel phone. Lacking any type of social filter, these idiots will reveal personal information that nobody needs to hear.
There will always be one or two louts sporting enormous back packs. They are always astounded when I give their bag a good shove and call them fucking idiots.
And that's just in the morning. What a rewarding experience it is to take a bus after a night of drinking. Sure, you are a responsible greaser and have left that car at home. In your drunken stupor you think it will be a great way to get home, and realizing that you have spent way too much at the bar, a great way to save money.
Not even the minds of the most evil war criminals could have come up with a form of torture as heinous as a drunken bus ride.
First of all, as drunk as you may be, everybody else is even drunker. All you want to do is get home, but these animals see it as a rolling party. A party inside a brightly lit, stinky, lurching box. You're definitely gonna need a drink when you finally do get home.
2. Shopping Malls.
Seeing as they have absolutely nothing I want, I rarely go to malls. The few times that I have been I was reasonably sure that I was experiencing what is an average Saturday afternoon at a lunatic asylum.
People milling around in a daze like zombies who forgot where their grave is. Desperately looking around to buy something. Anything. They must buy something as a way of defining their identity.
Mobs of shrieking teenage girls all simultaneously yammering on their cel phones and to each other. Their high pitched yelps are barely discernible as English. Their looks of contempt tell you that they think you suck.
The food courts with over priced junk food, where people dutifully line up to eat dried out french fries, crappy burgers and big plastic cups of watered down Coke. All to the while being serenaded by the syrupy music emanating from tinny speakers.
Yeah. My idea of fun.
3. Skanktown.
Every city has a Skanktown neighborhood. Filled with overpriced, pretentious restaurants and trendy shops, they are easy to spot.
There are throng of women jogging around in all directions sporting very tight yoga pants. They
don't have a particular destination, it's all just a fashion show. Others are sporting bleach blond hair, very expensive bags and microscopic dogs with bulging eyes.
The male population is comprised entirely of metro-sexuals. Sporting pink shirts and outrageous shoes they just stand around flashing their Rolexes and wads of cash trying to get the attention of skanks as they discuss the vagaries of the stock market.
Once I finished my 11 dollar beer, I got the fuck outta Skanktown.
4. Airports.
Going on vacation can be fun, but airports all over the world will the suck the fun out of anything. All airports seem to be the same. Vast mazes with incomprehensible signs, filthy bathrooms, rows upon rows of severely overpriced fast food outlets, and depressed looking people gloomily watching bad TV.
The Orwellian double speak of airline employees assure that you will never get a straight answer about anything or a valid reason as to why you were bumped off your flight.
You will be put up in some second-rate sterile hotel and treated to a bland, tasteless breakfast. As you finally get on a plane, you will order a 9 dollar stale sandwich and sit there bleary eyed staring at the tiny screen embedded in the seat in front of you.
When you finally get home, you wonder why it took 26 hours to fly 400 miles.
5. Jazz Bars
Of all the square establishments that make me squirm, the Jazz Bar is by far the worst. I avoid pretentious restaurants and hippie establishments as a rule, but the few times that I have been dragged to a Jazz Bar, it made all those other hell holes pale by comparison.
All the squares, neatly lined up in a row pretending to be intently focused on the music. These are not "jazzbos" who are " diggin' the vibe, man". These are just squares and they are a king sized drag, man.
I would always be amused at their shocked expression as I walked in. They would nervously cast side-long glances at me as they applauded after every single fucking solo.
I would get drunker and drunker, and they kept staring as they sipped expensive mineral water, getting more and more annoyed at my flat out refusal to clap after solos, the discordant jingling of my keys dangling from my belt, and the semi-drunken amused expression on my face.
I think they all breathed a collective sigh of relief when I finally left.
Stay greasy and be careful when you are in Squaresville.
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