I’m just tryin’ to boost my “booty shakin'” page rank on Google. Because the beat don’t stop till a) the break of dawn and/or b) I am the number one Google hit for “booty shakin’.”

Before I brought this site to life, heh, I (thought I) made a conscious choice to be less vituperative and condescending and judgmental, mostly because I’ve been working on the concepts of “right thought” and “right speech.”* And also because slinging insults, even well-deserved ones, is much easier for me when I can do it anonymously. There’s only so many times you can say “you’re an asshole” or “your [life’s work] is shit” before someone comes and punches you in the face or writes a scathing (though funny) essay about you and then reads it aloud in three different places** (including McNally Jackson this Wednesday) (did you see what I did there?) or singles you out in his Amazon review in a tone that indicates several decades’ worth of romantic rejections due to micropenis.

Anyhow, that’s my qualifying sentiment for what I’m about to write, and I do want to add that the only friend I have who’s even close to being Buddhist told me it was okay.

I spent all day Saturday in the library, doing school work, and I discovered something really funny. I always thought that my tendency to procrastinate was directly fueled by my Internet addiction, but it turns out that even when I don’t have wireless connectivity, I can still manage to procrastinate–by staring off into space for 45 minutes at a stretch.

Saturday night, I met up with N and friends at the French place down in Brooklyn where they all gather to play petanque and drink pastis. I know it sounds super-bourgeois, and it probably would be, were it not for the fact that half of them are ex-DC hardcore guys and the other half are Frank Booth-style malcontents.

So after several hours of this, we got on the G to head home. It was packed! (This never happens.) I had to shoulder my way through the doorway, even (well, mostly because I’m an asshole). N and I were in the middle of the car, surrounded by hipsters–and guess what, your mid-30s are officially the end of hipsterdom, real or imagined, which is something I learned between 3 years ago when I last blogged and now–and on one side of us we had a passel of disaffected 20-somethings wearing cut-offs and docksiders and Really Stupid Eyewear and on the other side we had a shirtless dude who was listening to his iPod and Rocking the Fuck Out.

Despite the stark contrast, I understood that all of these people were coming from the same annoying event.

N and I rolled our eyes. Actually, we rolled our eyes so many goddamned times we started tripping like Brion Gysin and his Dreammachine.*** Hipster Gang eyed Rocking Guy with derision. Finally, their ringleader (who I swear was sporting a well-manicured mustache and an acid-washed denim backpack but I can’t be sure I’m not remembering some pastiche, because as everyone knows eyewitness accounts are rarely accurate) went over to him and asked what he was listening to, then returned to tell his friends and they all chuckled. Rock Guy continued to Rock Out. Air guitar, air drums, air theremin.

N had a better view of him, and I had a better view of the Elders of Grizzly Bear. “That guy’s a tool,” he said. “He’s just looking for attention.”

I will admit that in most cases, I’d probably agree with him. Because despite being at most 25 and reasonably in touch with what the kids are wearing, he was shirtless and playing air guitar and thus thisclose to being that guy who walks around the park with a boa constrictor on his shoulders.

But I looked at the people standing behind N, the ones mocking Rock Guy like he was Christ Carrying the Cross and one of them was a girl wearing Sally Jesse Raphael eye glasses and eating a BAG OF SNOW PEAS and another one was a guy with the fucking National Bohemian logo tattooed on his forearm and I made the pronouncement that I’d much rather be Rock Guy than any of those people. Then N and I debated just who was the single biggest asshole on the train. And then we pulled into the Metropolitan station and everyone but us got off before I could pick a fight with any of them.

The moral of this story is that declaring Rock Guy the lesser asshole is the closest I’ve gotten to Right Thought and Right Speech.

The end.

(By the way, you will be unsurprised to hear that everyone was coming from the Animal Collective show in Prospect Park.)

*Not because I’m a Buddhist or anything; it just seems like a nice thing to do and until I can will people to die using only my intense hatred of mankind, I’m beginning to suspect that having a constant Frank Booth-style narrative running through my mind at all times isn’t very healthy.
**And hey, I have an intriguing follow-up to this part.
***Google it, philistines.
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