Doing it all for love and a mullet conclusion
Karaoke and Tight Jeans
There are people who do Karaoke for a living. They pass the hat for a dime and they wait. They wait to be discovered. They wait to be the “next big thing” and ride the bittersweet orgy of fame to the Promised Land. Mulleted or not, they’re out there singing away. They’re at Chopsticks, the Alibi and elsewhere, ready with an arsenal of “Sweet Caroline, Sweet Child of Mine, Sweet Home Chicago” and hits like “You Give Love a Bad Name” and “Living on A Prayer” from comeback pretty boy himself, Jon Bon Jovi.
Mr. Jovi, with his tight little jeans all in a bunch, may say that his songs are not making a comeback because they never went anywhere. We all know better.
He and his original band of buckaroos performed last week on Saturday night live. They had updated versions of rock and roll hair and clothes as tight as ever.
Bon Jovi’s hits are undeniable. I wake up at night from dreams of Gina. She works at the diner all day. She works for a man she brings home to her bed for love. For love.
I often sit bolt upright to tell myself and any animal in the room that’ll quit licking its genitals long enough to hear these timeless words. “We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got. It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not. We’ve got each other, and that’s a lot for love. For loove. Let’s give it a shot.” Cue guitar solo and one, two, three, we are back and I am in the mood. The cats love me already, but when I sing this chorus to the sweetheart, her eyes well up with love and yes, I am in. Thank you Jon Bon Jovi. I will support you. You and your band are almost as old as my parents and have super-styled borderline mullets, and I love you anyway. You are my hero.
What the Mullet taught me last week
After some un-eventful wanderings (this area isn’t as familiar as my marmot infested homeland) I found a nice little town down south. The town had a bar and I went inside. I met some regulars and before I could say, “Grilled mullet with lemon,” I found myself at a real humdinger of a party.
At the party I met a nice fellow called Paul who taught me a lesson. I saw Paul taking beer bong slugs from across the room, a good five or seven inches of blond locks cascading from underneath his Mariners hat (how about those M’s eh?)
We struck up a conversation later, over a bag of potato chips, and I commented on his wild and carefree demeanor.
“That’s just the thing,” he replied, “You see me as wild, but the squares I work with sure don’t, look at this.”
He took off his hat to reveal a clean business-like cut on the front and sides. If you looked at him from the front, he looked like aregular shorthaired upstanding citizen. He had a tapered mullet.
He tucked the hair flap right back up in his hat and he looked like a regular tame short hair. He pulled off the hat and “Pop!” There’s the tailgate. Up in the hat: good day sir. Down and dirty: look at the wild man go!
Paul even had ways of tying it up so good, my mom would’ve said, “what a nice young man, that Paul.”
“Thing’s aren’t always what they seem, man,” Paul said.
He sure was right because at that same moment I had a mind blowing double epiphany (much better than a single, you should try it sometime.) I realized that almost everyone at the party had a mullet and that many of them were incognito mullets.
I also realized that to properly understand the troubling and complex world events we’re in, you must not always believe what you hear and see, because there are many different perspectives. What is commonly portrayed as truth or “the way things are” is often only that way from a very skewed perspective.
Feeling stimulated but tired I caught a ride back to the town. I kind of started thinking that everyone had a secret mullet. We stopped for gas and I went up to a guy in the store and asked him where his mullet was.
The guy made a wild up and down gesture with his arms, pointing his middle fingers at his groin. “I got your mullet right here smart guy.”
He obviously didn’t understand what kind of mullet I wanted to see, and I surely didn’t want to stick around to see what he had down there so I skidaddled out the door.
Why is it that guys have to refer to their groin area, or “package” as so many different things?
Utilizing similar motions as the gas station guy, I’ve learned that random guys are carrying my “spare change,” “another cup of coffee” a “ride home” and even a “smart ass newspaper story;” “right here.”
Guys, if my ride home is really down there, I don’t want it.
As I mentioned last week, I got home and the psychic fair was in full swing. I’m a little upset with these “psychics” because they should have warned us about the coming war a little sooner.
I walked by and said, “I got your psychic fair right here.” Those arrogant psychics didn’t laugh because they knew I was going to say that. Damn that Miss Cleo and her minions!
