Thursday, June 17, 2004

IT'S A SAD DAY WHEN A ROCKER GOES BALD and other musings, like how shitty my dads were

I was riding my bike along Rivington St. and I saw a rocker walking, no, strutting towards Essex. He was wearing strategically ripped jeans with a chain adornment, he had tattoos all over his arms and neck, his torso endorsed some shitty band he looked up to via overworn tee shirt and his long, rockin' hair fell gracefully past his shoulders. He looked like any rocker, except for the fact that he had a large bald spot atop his peak of rock, his fountain of rock-spiration. When a normal guy goes bald, he shaves his head or gets those horrid transplants or wears a hair piece or yarmulke or baseball cap or combs his hair across like the cascading pages of a book, or colors in the bald spot with shoe polish or sharpie markers. But when a rocker goes bald, what the hell is he gonna do? If he's just your typical pose-rocker, he'll do one of the above maneuvers or make up his own. But if he's true hard-core rock personified, he has to let his hair fall away, like the dreams of fame and fortune he fostered as a 23 year old, fresh on the scene. He has to watch as his hair drops out of his scalp, much like the way he dropped out of high school. He has to recognize the open space above his heart of rock, empty - like his bank account. Maybe he can find some charming comparison, say, the fact that his skull shines like his leather pants once did. But the harsh reality will eventually sink in as he realizes that he will go bald before he will go platinum.

Father's Day is on the way, and I find myself strangely looking forward to the annual phone call I place to my father where I thank him for being just okay. I have a strange-ish dad set-up - I was lucky, I got not only one neglectful father, but two! The first one couldn't bear the responsibility of parenthood and he went to California, I think he walked, to find his fame and fortune as a gay sex maniac. When he wasn't being gay, he'd build computers and call me every so often to remind me that my mother was a horrible cunt or ask me if I could send him photos of my vagina.

My step-dad, dad number two, started off well-intended, I believe. He met my young, hot mom who was burdened with abandoned child, and decided yes, maybe taking on parental responsibilities it is worth it to bed milady. Little did he know, but there were lots of young hot women who were kidless. After a few years he decided that, having the equipment, he could make his own brats and gave my mother two more daughters, pride and joy numbers one and two. I got put on the back burner, literally, face held down to the burner, no, just kidding. My dad threw a softball at my face once, though and hit me in the nose "accidentally". He also pushed me off a boat and chipped my front tooth, which ruined my childhood.

Happy fathers's days, pops's.

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