In the past week I have read Gatsby (Fitzgerald), Post Office (Bukowski), and am now venturing into On the Road (Kerouac), which I regretfully have not yet read.  Though the second two subscribe to a similar writing style – that being the beat style, or the beat… – I still think that the narrators share something.  The narrators also reflect what the authors want to reflect and comment on/about, or so I hope, so all of these authors share something.  And that is this: Americans, at least our average ones, are naive – which, from what I’ve read…seen (maybe?) might be true – while our authors, our narrators, are smarter, on top of what is hip, artsy, cool, European, Liberal, smart, sophisticated, sensible…. The subjects are them, and we are us.  And maybe they want this – their readers are smart, sophisticated (etc.), so why not appeal to them; why not create that special bond between reader and narrator.  But, I do not think that authors try to write for people – the educated masses; instead, I think that writers have a special tendency to deviate from what they consider normal, while, at the same time, hold considerable admiration for what is simple – what is average and normal.  Great balance!  

I know lots of people would cringe at the thought of making generalizations such as these – especially when writing about authors like Bukowski and Fitzgerald in the same post.  They are different.  I know.  But the narrators hold some kind of admirable complexity that, I hope, everyone picks up on.  I guess that is just the natural tendency for social commentary, and it works, and I like it…

The Conception:

Beer Factory — a place known for its competitive drinking — is the place where this move was first used, and then shortly thereafter, perfected by your compelling narrator.  So there was drinking, and our keg tap (yes, each table possesses its own keg tap that you claim to be your own) was flowing with the greatness of beer that is Pilsner Urquell.  Conversation was loud due to the fact that voices needed to be raised; that is to say, DJ Krazy Kat was making it difficult to hear anything at all, besides, of course, his mix — and I stress MIX — because this mix of music simply didn’t make sense (for anyone who took American History X, it was a mixed salad, not a melting pot).  But the man behind the booth, clicking furiously away at his computer screen, was actually motivating dancers and “the dancer,” who created the move which I made my own, to create an awesome Dance Party.  

He was out there — a curly haired man of about 50 — raging to tunes by DJ Krazy Kat.  His glasses were big, stylish, and funky.  His Asics were those of a 10 year old boy who is the king of his gym class.  And his jeans fit perfectly — not too baggy, not too tight — and they held on tightly to his awkward upper hip area.   So he leans to grab the hand of an enticing temptress rocking the floor, and while doing so (THE MOVE!), he subtly tilts his upper body to an incredibly perfect dancing angle, and begins to make small spastic movements…jumping inches, slightly tilting his head, moving his hands to his lower back region, fit for the court of King…truly regal.  And as I see this, I think, “The man has done it — the best dance move ever!”  And so I approach the floor, sneaking in quick looks while pretending to dance on my own.  I am intrigued, fascinated.  I wonder, “How many smoking babes will I get after I learn this greatness, make it my own, and hence, make it greater?”  The answer, of course: Tons, tons of babes.  

So, weeks later, the move is perfected and needs to be used.  It has been brought out with me before (see below) but never in its perfected form.  This weekend, 12 midnight, parking lot…that’s where it’s going down!

This past Saturday I went out and had beers and stuff.  It was Saturday, so…DUH.  Well, all that matters is that I was a bit intoxicated…and my dress — I was wearing a Polo pull-over, which was pulled over (hence the name) a tan J-Crew V-neck sweater.  But the sweater didn’t have a label — it could have been made by brand X for all those looking.  But the point is that the navy polo had a bright yellow horse — bright yellow – emitting its own light that says one thing to one person and another thing to another person.  Besides that, forget the prep…I was wearing Levi 501′s — classic — and a pair of white Nike Blazer’s (fresh — self call).  Wrapped around my neck — my Iron Maiden dog tag…true BA.

Anyway, after walking home for about a half an hour from a night of, well, you know, I couldn’t but notice that our lovely square — Podebrad Square — where our apartment so nicely sits was blanketed with the kind of fog that you can see through but light can’t get through.  I took it in — bro… And here I was, Dickie, alone at night with no one else to enjoy the beautifully (sarcastic) constructed Podebrad Square Church covered in its appropriate slime.  And then the hoodrats…

I see two figures. Me and them.  Dickiebro and the rats.  The rats were throwing rocks at — I’m guessing — their school, which sits right next to the comfortable apartment building in which I live.  Aiming for windows…crash….they hit one, they hit a window.  They laugh.  I get closer and now I have a better look: The kids are probably 16 and dressed head-to-toe in the steeziest of the steeze.  Real steeze-mongrels.  They have their big sweatshirts decorated in gold stenciling and their hoods draped over their eyes…and, can I see bandanas?  Covert-ops!  Now I am getting closer, not enough for an interaction but I think…

My Polo.  Fuck, my yellow light!  I take my pull-over and I pull-it-over…my head, so that it is off my body.  Now I’m one of them!  I am happy, really?  Well, now I have brand X and IRON MAIDEN — my skull dog tag.  I am suddenly showered with joy — elated.  And now I can interact…I stare, I act cool, my Iron Maiden dangling like an Iron Maiden ought to.  I smile and walk cooly past the rats, the BA’s…are they afraid of me?  Probably.  Fucking MAIDEN, you rock!  I get to the front door of my building, unlock the door, and SPRINT up the four flights up the stairs so they don’t catch me…I’m exhausted.