The OCD Club

I certainly can't deny that greasers have a little bit of OCD. We are indeed devoted to a lifestyle. Some people may even think that.. wait for it.. we are weird.  If liking cool rat rods and listening to rockin' music is weird, then so be it. If putting huge dollops of greasy shit in our hair is weird, let the weirdness continue. If all the gals we know like to get all dolled up in vintage clothes, I can see why the average office drone who is devoid of any culture or sense of history ,would wonder aloud where the fifties party is.

We are all pretty content with the whole Rockabilly thing and I can understand that the average square will just never get it, and I can live with that. I know for a fact that the twanginess in Rockabilly is mistaken for Country by a lot classic rock lovin' rednecks and that it definitely offends them for some reason. I find that amusing, and I won't even try to explain it. The whole greaser thing eludes most people making it all seem somewhat enigmatic. I completely understand that. There are goups of people out there however, who I completely don't understand. They are the OCD clubs . They are slavishly devoted to whatever their indulgence may be and dogmatically espouse the virtues of that sub-culture ( nothin' like rockabillies, right?)


The Chess Club.

There is such a place. Why I know a dude who hangs out there is a long, convoluted story. It is a cafe that has a bunch of tables with chess boards and all the chess dudes spend a lot of time there. They mill around incessantly, unabashedly displaying their obsession like meth addicts waiting for their next fix. They bet money on the outcome of games and the better players play speed chess, further adding to the chaos.

They obviously drink a lot of coffee, further still fueling the tension in an already tense atmosphere. This means that a) they don't drink and b) they definitely don't have girlfriends. I suppose one needs a modicum of intelligence to play chess, but I don't see the allure. I know how to play chess, and I freakin' suck at it. Not to mention the fact that it bores the ass clean offa me. Like blackjack (which I also suck at) the subtlety eludes me. It's not that I'm dumb, it's just that my brain doesn't want to indulge in hours of endless tedium trying to figure this shit out. Buying lotto tickets is way easier than playing blackjack and watching paint dry is way more fun than watching a bunch of nerds playing chess.

Yes, there are even bigger nerds who actually view chess as a spectator sport and get all excited as the various moves are executed. They ooh and aah and mutter such inanities as " oh, he is using the dweebokov gambit". They should trying playing chess where each chess piece is a shot glass of whisky. That would make things interesting and surely nerd slapfights would break out. Now that would be a spectator sport.


Live Long And Prosper.

Oh those Trekkies, or Trekkers as they prefer to be called. Several documentaries have been made on this subject and in the end, it is just downright sad.  I do know the difference between Captain Kirk and Captain Picard. Sometimes I wish that I indeed was a Klingon, so that I could beat the crap out of people without any fear of reprisal. I wish that transporters did exist so that I could beam annoying hippies out to the middle of the ocean or 10, 000 feet straight up into the sky, but hey, I sometimes wish that the Coyote would catch that smart-ass roadrunner as well.

This all harmless fantasy until it is taken too far. If you convert your car into a shuttle craft and roll around the 'hood in your pajamas looking for Romulans you may be in need of some therapy. If you learn the fictional language of Klingon with your half-wit friends, you have too much time on your hands. If you and your dweeb army order Big Macs at McD's in Klingon then you deserve a Vulcan nerve pinch... I mean a good punch in your Klingon forehead.

This vanguard of the boozeless take things to extremes that few other groups can eclipse. Often they know little of actual science or physics. One time, I somehow got embroiled into a pointless discussion with an idiot in a bar about science. Maybe I also was an idiot that night for getting roped into this discussion in the first place. This genius was convinced that faster-than-light travel was real because it happened on Star Trek. I made futile attempts to explain that it is a goddamned TV show, but I somehow wasn't getting through. I guess these type of people believe that Great Danes can solve mysteries, Coyotes have easy access to tons of explosives, there was nothing going on with Batman and a 17 year old side kick wearing underwear or that Fred Flinstone could move a 65 ton car made out of rock with his feet. These are the exact same people who are convinced that the Moon landings were a hoax.




Vegan Bongo Madness.

While it's true that many of my posts include various tirades on the annoying and predictable habits of hippies, a list on OCD behavior would not be complete without it. As I have stated many times in the past, hippies fondly see themselves as staunch individualists and nothing could be further from the truth. Their interest and demeanor are so cliche and obvious that is laughable ( if their dogamtic proselytising wasn't so infuriating).
Their fascination with obscure African percussion instruments is not difficult to understand; very little talent is required to aimlessy bang away on one of the things and the annoyance factor is a plus. Being passive-aggressive, hippies love to annoy regular folk. And drum cicles are pretty fucking annoying.

Protests are equally annoying and I suspect that hippies participate in demonstrations and protest simply to annoy people who aren't in them. Also, lacking any direction or focused interest in anything concrete, it is simply a way of finding an identity for themselves( and 100,000 of their unwashed brethren).

Their shrill denouncement of meat, bacon, leather, cars (re; crititcal mass), smoking on patios and any thing else fun seems to give them a sense of smug self-importance and moral superiority. Yet they see nothing wrong with smoking tons of pot in parks, mooching smokes and driving vintage VW buses. The latter really kills me seeing as those contraptions pollute more than 60 two-stroke weed whackers and is so blatantly cliche that I wanna cut their dreadlocks with a two-stroke Husqvarna chainsaw.

Yeah a lot of people smoke pot, but hippies take it to a whole other level. They will never admit that they simply want to get fucked-up ( like us boozers). They have to spew half-baked philosophical concepts about expanding their mind and creativity as well the importance of 420 day. In reality it just increases their already astounding level of laziness and incoherence. It also gives them the munchies, so now you know what happens to all that tofu at the supermarket.

Hipsters on the other hand, are nothing more than hippies with pork pie hats and mustaches. I have written much on hipsters, so I won't go into an in-depth rant. Suffice it to say that they are shallow, directionless scensters who refuse to admit they are part of any scene. They have ruined a lot things for a lot of people: mustaches, vintage eyeglasses, tattoos, bicycles and hell, even irony itself. I am still incapable understanding their obsession with fixed-gear bikes however. I tried riding one once and, other than only being able to pedal the thing backwards, almost freakin' killed myself. Maybe their numbers will eventually dwindle through attrition due to fixie bike collisions with other fixie bikes because of the complete lack of brakes, fatal ironic mustache entanglements, walking into traffic as a result of wearing thick glasses while sporting 20/20 vision, coffee overdoses, brain injuries from listening to one too many shitty bands, aneurysms from overly vigorous poetry slams or espresso machine explosions.

That covers only a few of the strange OCD people out there. Now you'll have to excuse me while I go shopping for some hair grease and have hour long discussions with my greasy buddies about grease. I  might swing by the store to get some PBR and Lucky Strikes. Before I go, I have to check my hair in the mirror, measure the cuffs on my jeans to make sure they're exactly 4 inches, synch some more rockabilly onto my iPod while looking at pictures of rat rods, curse the fact that my wallet chain ain't big enough and practice saying "daddy-o". No OCD behavior here.