My father used to tell me not to end up here. Well, here I am Old Man; this seems to be the only place I want to go. I get bored at movie theatres now; falling asleep half-way through some conjured up riff-raff they’re calling an epic tale. Somebody trying to get somewhere and do something. Maybe it’s a tale of love, or another formulated Zombie thriller. Anyways. Half the time I’m sneaking a Mickey in just so I have something to do, and by the time everyone’s really into the movie my friends and I have created the crowd participation row, yelling at the characters on the screen and pissing everyone in the theater off. Ah, just another wasted night I guess. Can’t fit in, can’t hold back. People have become so lifeless and boring, I feel like I have to do something to make up for it. Families can go home at the end of the day and recall those belligerent guys at Wal-Mart that were asking the entertainment guy for CD’s of bands that don’t even exist, like ‘GRAIN AUGER DISMEMBERMENT’, or ‘SATANIC DEATH TURD.’ “Yeah I don’t think we carry that kind of music,’ they sputter. Half of these people can’t even tie their own shoelaces. So am I an asshole, or just raising hell. I would say there’s a difference. But the only place I seem to ever get away with this shit anymore is at the Zoo. And I’m not talking about Bears and monkeys. I’m talkin’ about a place where, if you had a bad day, the bartender will pour you a triple, and not question whether you’ve had enough yet. Kick me out when the lights turn on God Damnit! This is the Zoo! The OOZ! Where I came to get drunk as hell with my de-generate friends. Where really smart people that are bored with our predictable lives come to get all warm and fuzzy and red in the nose, cause sittin at home ain’t cuttin it. For chrissakes, this is where I come to kick over people’s chairs and throw drinks at cover bands and watch local bruisers hit the floor. Pat the fag had an epileptic seizure one night, pissed as a billy goat. They had to do CPR on him. This is where you come to see the unexpected, this is where you abandon your dreams, this is where some people have come to drink themselves to death.
And you told me never to end up here. As a kid I remembered the faces that spilled out of this place and the regulars that showed up, not a minute late. Some of them used to drive. I haven’t seen them doing anything but drink now for the last ten years. Skinny and dying, with a face that looks like a strained towel. Who would ever want to talk to Duane? He has hamburger nose. Drunk and lonely de-generate Duane, sittin by himself rocking the fuck out to every song on the juke-box. I talked to him, and apparently, he used to be part of a traveling band of gypsy carnivals. Met his old man too. They used to have a spider monkey, and snakes, God damnit, they had a fucking ANACONDA that they took through customs from....Mexico..... He said the cops made them open the box, and even after great debate that it wasn’t a good idea, those hard-boiled meatheads still pursued the contents of this box, and when they finally got the crow-bar out and popped the lid, out came this huge fucking Anaconda, spilling out like a slinky. And then the show began as everyone scattered. It took ten men to stuff a two by four in it’s jaws, and with no effort the snake had snapped it in two. By the time they finally got the God-damn snake back in the box the cops still had the tenacity to ask what was in the other boxes. SNAKES!
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Duane said when the old snake died they threw it off the docks into the Fraser river in ....Vancouver..... Well some old Indian was fishing one day and drug this damn thing off the bottom. He came to the local bar and was convinced he found a sea monster, a fucking dinosaur. Needless to say Duane and his old man never laughed so hard. A real hard laugh. And you ask any Joe Blo, when was the last time he genuinely laughed at something so strange. Duane is one of the drunkest, most up-beat, rockin-rollinest guys I ever drank with. Best damn story I ever heard. But, it’s also the only story he’s told me. Now he’s a painter with no car and he works every other day. Spends all his god damn money on booze. Fuckin’ de-generate.
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See, the OOZ is the crab bucket. As soon as a crab tries to crawl out the others pull him back in. That freedom and booze has got most of these guys by the balls. And it’s not freedom. The illusion of being able to be yourself is what this place is. It’s a holding cell, where you can be yourself. Anywhere else and you’d be in trouble. The world can’t take hell-raising anymore. People would rather be content with their own mortality, and hide away in their homes and shop at their special JC Penny’s and Wal-Marts until they die. But I don’t. I want to take a piece of this God Damn world with me when I die.
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You know where the place to be is? ....Beijing..... They’re right in the middle of a sexual revolution. Sex, Drugs, and Rock and roll. They’ve been oppressed for so God damn long that now it’s levees broke and people are getting their own and getting it on. I’d love to tell them that this is where their going to end up. Boring and washed up. Two generations of Baby Boomers and Gen-X’ers sitting in a pub wishing that it was in the streets and colleges. ..China.. has one-billion people that share the same attitude as one stinking-fucking barroom in highway town between ..Calgary.. and ....Edmonton..... A notorious place where the people are not like any other that I have seen, in any other pub.
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Outside is a country that used to be! With kids that aren’t pushing any boundaries, but the illusion of boundaries. I was accosted at a 7-11 by four kids who said they were gonna fuck my girlfriend. So I challenged them. Apparently the little Tony Soprano complexed pricks were only sixteen. Anyways, one blind-sided me and left my lip hangin down by my chin. And when I stared at him, bleeding and laughing, they stepped back. So I called the cops on the little prick. That’s not the real world. You don’t do that. I should have fuckin flattened his nose and relocated his jaw to the back of his neck. But, you can’t do that. There was no case. So, it was forgotten! Nothing you can do right? And I’m not going to jail; that place doesn’t sound like fun anyways.
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The entire reason I got singled out was because of the way I dressed. But I’ve done more in a day then they’ve done in their entirely worthless, ass wiped, nose running sixteen years on this planet. Go play a fucking video game or something. When I was that age I looked up to people of interest. Wanted to be them, hang out with them, hear their story. Fuck your generation! I’m Gen-X, what the fuck are you! A big mish-mash of wannabes and white rappers that spends more on clothes than they do spending time on a hobby. God-damn useless, illiterate jerk-offs. Your generation isn’t anything. It’s the end; the bottom of the barrel. A generation of hand-me-downs with no stories to tell. The left-overs. The blank page.
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