[ Editor's note: I was in the middle of writing a much longer, more interesting blog about this, but it was so awesome that it actually crashed Firefox, so you will have to live with the abbreviated version. I'm sorry. ]
Behold, children... THE HAWAIIAN SHIRT!
The other day, I was lucky (?) enough to score tickets to the Eagles concert at the Staples Center here in Los Angeles. (Yes, those Eagles.) I've never been a huge fan of their music, but I don't mind it... you must remember that I was, as a child of the mid-late 70's, most certainly indoctrinated into Eagledom near to the point of being brainwashed. Even today, at times, when drifting on the edge of sleep, I'll wonder aloud why the Desperado just won't come to his senses. And, why do gay people like cowboys so much?
So, to the point: holy crap are middle-aged white people lame. I've kinda understood this for some time now, but I've never been drowned in a tsunami of it. It's a weird kind of lame, too. A lovable, huggable kind of lame. For instance, one of the older white lame-os (OWL) decided that he was going to go wild and dance in the aisle of the concert. So, dance he did. A writhing, almost seductive sort of dance, kind of like a really uncoordinated belly dancer. Of course, the security person in charge of our section of aisle (an older African-american woman) approached and asked him to sit down. So, what did Mr. Wild decide to do? Sit down? Fight the power? No. He decided to turn the seductive power of his goofy yet exotic gyrations on the encroaching authority figure. At first, she seemed angry and repeated her requests for him to resume his proper place in the sea of lameocity. Yet, he persisted. Just when I would have expected her frustration to escalate to scene-proportion levels, she... broke. Gave in to the irresistably arrhythmic quasi-mating dance of the spotted OWL. She rolled her eyes, swatted him on the shoulder, laughed couquettishly and said, "Oh, you!!! Get back to your seat!" Pwnd. So pwnd.
And, holy shit! I've never seen so many Hawaiian shirts, like, ever. What's the deal with that? I ask the question but, somehow... I know the answer. It's waiting deep in me, waiting like unimaginable horror lurks deep amongst the stars. It's waiting and it's coming. Like death and taxes, discovery of this horrible truth is imminent and unavoidable. I feel it coming. I feel it in my vague, twisted fascination with those horrid shirts. Don't all the inevitable pairings start that way? I mean, I saw Snoop and made fun of him like everyone else. "I can't believe it," I said. "How can someone so ridiculous be so famous???" This rejection quickly metamorphosed into a mocking adaptation of the object. Through use, the adaptation grew to a familiarity and the familiarity grew to a fondness. And, the kicker is, when I think about it, there was something in me, something deep inside me, all along that had a fondness for the object, for the Snoop... and for the... for the Hawaiian shirt.
I cannot deny my destiny.
( Me 15 or 20 years from now: )
