I love music. I abso-lute-ly love music. And I’ll listen to it non-stop in stretches. For days on end. There were times when I was in South Beach when I would take my iPod out just to listen to specific songs while I was on the street shooting people. But I’m not really big on music drowning out the world around me. I don’t keep music running in the background of day to day life much, either, as it can distract me from what I need to do; I’ll find myself way too caught up in it.
However, there are certain instances that absolutely mandate that music be played beyond loudly through earbuds, silencing out everything around. Noise, I can stand; whether it be a thousand cicadas screeching through the night or sirens wailing through the streets of some metropolis, these sounds are acceptable. Garish people blabbing about their vacuous lives in a coffee shop, however…I don’t want to hear it. At all. Not unless they’re really, really sexy. I mean super-sexy.
And this town is overflowing with loudly talking blahs. Not the sexy so much.
I was lamenting to the folks last night about how I couldn’t stand this town. How I had forgotten how much I loathe it. And it’s the people. It’s the people that make me not want to be here. It’s filled to the rim with self-obsessed, pretentious snots who, when you ponder them (from first glance and from the first words that come out of their large gaping pieholes), you wonder why at all they are self-obsessed and pretentious. Yet they are. I hate to be so cynical and negative, but if I were any one of these people, I would quickly get myself to the largest church I could find and pray for a do-over from day one.
Pops asked, “Are the people not shallow in Miami? (Yeah, I know. I laughed, too.)
“They’re absolutely shallow in Miami! But I expect it there.” It’s one of the many things I like about Miami and, more specifically, South Beach. In Miami, it makes sense. It’s almost part of the culture. Maybe it is part of the culture. Maybe it’s in the South Beach handbook or Visitor’s Guide. Here in gentrified HeeHawVille, though, it’s unwarranted. It’s vulgar. It’s… it’s … just get me the hell out of here.
I was watching Tora! Tora! Tora! on television earlier (it’s been a really busy week for me) and as I sat there watching it, I found myself wishing that the Japanese had targeted Charlotte, North Carolina, instead of Pearl Harbor.
Maybe we could do something like Escape from New York and just put a lockdown on Charlotte. Let it serve as a lesson to the rest of humanity on how not to build a society. Just as long as I get out of here before the walls go up. I don’t really want to be Snake in this pit but I will if I have to.
I thought you were talking about the United States of America until you specifically mentioned Charlotte. Yesterday some dude was talking so loudly on his cell phone in a waiting lobby. The kind that is purposely being loud and dramatic so everyone around could hear his lamenting conversation. I’m incapable of tolerating it. I asked him to ” kindly, please, SHUT THE F**K up, or take it outside.” He took it out and never came back in.
It’s America man. I’ve seen it from the beaches of Hawaii, to the Redwoods of Arcata, and everywhere on this sprawling catastrophe they call Houston. I really need to get out of the country before I murder or get murdered because I’ve lost all patience with it everywhere. I yell at people for being mean to to the checker at the grocery store, for not getting service as fast as they want it at the post office. All these self entitled, spoiled brat, Americans. I loathe this place and smile with glee each time I hear another brick from her walls fall to the ground. It’s time to get out. Costa Rica calls and life again in tent with a fishing pole. I’m done with this cesspool that sucks all social decency into a black, gaping hole.
“Snake Pliskin. I heard ‘a you……I heard you was dead.”
“The president is dead. Somebody had him for breakfast. I’m comin’ out.”
One of my favorite movies ever. Action, humor, wrestling, and big tits.