Last night, watching the opening scene to the Brood, I was enamored by Oliver Reed’s grandiose interchange with an aging Zak Galifianakis clone.  Its so fucking over the top and intense, true to the spirit of Mr. Reed who was incidentally a raging alcoholic.  I instantly figured that I had to become a fan of Oliver on facebook and was struck today by the quote from Oliver Reed’s obituary posted on his fan page.

“He ends as a capering phallic bufoon – ridiculous but somehow innocent too, and strangely self-sufficient in his isolation”

So as everyone that actually cares pretty much knows without the backstory, I ended up on Urban Velo which is a satellite site of their print magazine dealing with bike culture.  You can view the tough crowd stylo here.  I’d request that people ease back on the vitriolic defensive comments as thats not the point.  The urban velo guys were cool enough to post up the mp3 after a drunken 3am email about deep v’s.  I guess maybe if I mentioned Mavic’s and had a beard I’d get a better response.  But the mandana threw everyone for a loop.  That goddamned mandana.  The very mandana that kept my throat golden in the negative ten wind chill all winter.  Curse that fucking piece of functional fashion.

Did it moderately fuck up my day?  I guess it did.  It was pretty spectacular this morning.  It was .38 special day after all.  My own secret holiday that I battered  my office cohorts with.  I even replayed it verbatim to my favorite barista who in turn battered me with accusations that I was secretly not drinking the brand of tea she had been suggesting all along.  A day of people I don’t know saying “This may sound weird… but I see you everywhere… on your bike.”    A day that was going pretty good sans the solid hangover that was dragging me through the coals.

And then for some reason it happened.  Look at this fucking hipster.  Look at how fucked up this guy looks.  Let me discern whatever it is that I can from a fucking myspace picture taken in the dead of winter out of context.  Lets write a story about how fucked up this guy is.  Let us weigh our own self worth against someone we don’t know.  Lets act out the Stanford Prison experiment digitally, hiding behind anonymous ip’s and firewalls.

Its this kind of fucking behavior which keeps me from going into the bike shop more than I already do.  Keep in mind, my two favorite bike shops in the city, Yojimbo’s and Boulevard, are staffed by the most helpful and socially adjusted people ever.  I ask a semi stupid question and I get an educated answer without fucking snark or prejudice.  If I’m looking at some awfully colored grip tape, the only lecture I get is about not joining the Chicago Bike Federation.  Its the eyes peeling in the background.  Its me commenting on Zaffiro tires to some unsuspecting urban trash and getting a oft put look.  Its me rapping about deep v’s and someone not getting the joke that I can’t actually afford a built-up set.

Hipster douche bags exist.  Herpes is all the rage.  Vice magazine is going to scare the pants off of you.  We are all going to die.  I see it everyday.  Every fucking ghost bike and viaduct I pass.  Every time I go to sleep.  I’m reminded about the reality of the situation I’m in.  About how I used to think I could live forever and now I’m just wasting away.  About how you and your friends are living it up in your preferred social circle and are suspicious of newcomers.  About how you are always right and you are the absolute tastemaker.  And how your word is fucking law.  The alpha and the omega.  About how its funny I’ve never fucking heard of you or what it is you do?  What do you actually contribute to the meaningless nature of existence? 

Back on the topic of Oliver Reed, I bring you one of the two quotes I actually agree with:

“Life shouldn’t be about sitting around staring at frosted glass. Life should be lived and that’s all there is to it.” 

The other one is about sleeping with as many women as possible and kissing dogs noses, which I emphatically disagree with out of principle.  But hey, don’t let me steal your thunder.

If there’s anything I could add to my mate Oliver’s knowledge, its that life shouldn’t be spent picking apart people other than yourself.  It should be spent coming to grips with your own personal existence.  The fucking good and the bad.  The facts of life.  Tootie on some rollerskate business.  I mean, everyone is entitled to some “No sir, did not like it.”

But this personal vendetta psychosis shit is next level for real.  And for that I thank you.   Its the only way I know I’m pushing the right buttons and breaking the right laws.  Its the billy club and the taser in the form of electronic submission.  Its the 7.62 ammo you load with full intention of armor piercing with intent to kill.  

And you know what, like Oliver Reed I’m ignorant enough not to care.  Rocking my bulletproof mandana in the face of the most artic of fucking Chicago weather, watching my skin open up to reveal the blood that flows through my veins.  Me and my bicycle navigating the streets in pastel alone without the summer breeze and pagentry that comes with blown stop lights and broken traffic laws.

This goes out to you as a personal thank you.  Thank you for making me the victim.  There’s nothing more hip than being victimized.

Just look at the bulk of programming on the Lifetime channel.

• BROWSE / IN TIMELINE
• « Bitter Harvest (draft)
• » Loudness.

• BROWSE / IN douchebaggery lifetime movie of the week serious rap shit
• « Bucktown: Home of the Original Gun Clappers
• » Loudness.