22 June, 2011

Fake Tit Mod, Long Gigs, And ‘The A’s’

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Fake Tit Mod, Long Gigs, And ‘The A’s’

6.22.11



I am pretty tired. I had two gigs yesterday. The first was an acoustic gig at a club outside on the edge of the beach for happy hour. The club is a little over an hour from my house. Three sets, each set about fifty minutes. Then we had to scurry down the way about fifteen minutes to play at another club from nine to one-thirty. Since the owner of the second club is a cocksucker and demands strict adherence to the start times, in order to make sure everything went smoothly, I left my house at eleven-thirty in the a’s (as the kids say now), loaded up the truck, drove an hour and went to the second club first to unload and setup what we didn’t need for the first show. Then we went to the first gig, setup there and played three sets, then broke down super quickly and went to the second show to finish setting up, and played three one hour sets. We started at the second show at 9:03. Not too bad. But today, I’m pretty beat. By the way, I’ve never heard a kid refer to the am as ‘the a’s.’ I made that part up.


At the bookstore recently with my beautiful and remarkable girlfriend, I ran into someone I know. This isn’t a terribly anomalous occurrence. It seems as if everywhere I go I see someone I know. It’s a blessing and a curse. The problem is that I, more than often, have no idea to whom I am speaking and hoping that that they’ll drop something mind jogging enough for me to play Nancy Drew and figure who the hell this person is. This isn’t what happened at all. So I don’t know why I said all that just now. Anyway, I saw a broad with whom I had worked at an overnight call centre. It was the worst job on the planet, save the averagely to above averagely cool people I worked with. I sold a colon cleanse. This orange tinted cat with a stupid name would talk on TV about all the nasty shit that’s in your… well, shit. Then he would convince you that you’re going to die. That’s when you call me at three o’clock in the morning, and that is also when you describe to me what your shit looks like in minute detail. Since I was a shitty salesman, I rarely sold anything and I sucked at my job. None of this back story has anything to do with anything, but my hands hurt from yesterday so I’m kind of phoning this one in, if you can’t tell.


So I saw someone from that job. Here at the bookstore, we had an ‘oh my God, how have you schmeeeeeehhhhhh…’ moment that makes me want to pull the tails off of baby woodland creatures. I asked her about her because in my experience, whoever the her is, she just wants to talk about her. She told me and I can’t remember what she said. On her tit, her left one I think, was a heart and a little flourish thing. It looked new. So I asked her.


“Did you get modified?” I asked.

“What?” She looks at her tit drawing. “No! God, no. No, this is fake. No way.”


This is when I remembered a very important thing. There was a carnival in the mall parking lot until Sunday and I needed to get there so I could eat my weight in funnel cake, vomit, then eat more funnel cake.


Then I thought about what the broad said, then funnel cake, then the broad, and then funnel cake again. Her reaction spoke to an appalling kind of, ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’ kind of response. As if I am loonier than an inept hunter with a lisp looking for a sexually ambiguous rabbit who continues to outsmart him. What I remember of this broad is that shit would fall out of her mouth a lot. She’s a good kid and we got along swimmingly (even though I can’t swim), but I remember she had a way of just saying dumb shit before rereading the draft in her head. I knew she wasn’t coming at my way of life and my affinity toward the modification culture by reacting with a tone of offense at my inquiry of her tit art. But it made me think of the co-opting of our culture. Should we be offended at it, or is it far less than worth it to worry about?


This kind of thing really doesn’t blow my skirt up as much as you would probably think. Of course, I don’t know you, so I can’t speak to what your opinion is about me. (See, that’s called fluff because I’m really tired and phoning this blog in.) This weekend I was down the shore in Atlantic City for a thing, and walking the boards, we passed a henna tattoo shop thing. One of my companions (here’s your name, Dan) made a joke about my getting one. The fake tattoo, the henna art (or whatever it is) are an interesting soft modification. The fake tattoo especially. The henna doesn’t bare that much notice I think because it is a unique thing to itself. It’s neat looking and distinct, and I think that very few people who get that art done onto them are really trying to create an illusion of tattoo modification. I don’t think anyone has ever been duped by a henna tattoo thinking it was a real, in skin tattoo.


But the fake tattoo, the one that is slightly better than what the kids get in the Cracker Jacks boxes. Reading way too far into it, there is an attempt to create an illusion that the modification is real. There’s an intentional deception. Is that fair to our culture? Do we have a greater ownership of skin art because we’ve sat in the chair for several painful hours and have the image for the rest of forever? Weekend modifiers. Playing in our culture for a little while, and then returning to their nine to five lifestyle without having to worry about the negative social repercussions that inherently come with a visible mod, like a tit tattoo. Should we get bent about this?


I’m not sure that I care enough to get wound around the axle about something like a fake tattoo. It’s horrendously irritating, though. It’s a thing unique to our culture. I mean, a white can’t play black for a day, or a straight can’t play gay for a day, or rich can’t play poor for a day. But our culture can be a vacation to those who don’t participate regularly. From certain point of view, no one has ownership of drawing shit on skin. It’s a human thing to do, isn’t it. War paint, spiritual ritual, the fat kid in the back of the class who fell asleep and now has had penises drawn on him by the dastardly scamps next to him.


I mentioned the negative social repercussions of visual modification. There are those, and I don’t have to tell any of you cats or kittens that. Our job opportunities are more limited, our acceptance by those who misunderstand our culture, the stares and irritating questions. Don’t get me wrong here; we all knew this and we’ve done it to ourselves, so bitching about it is a valueless complaint. But those things are real. The fake mod is a thing where a boom-boom party woo girl can pretend for a a couple of hours that she is a part of a thing that may prevent her in her daily life from teaching that middle school English class, or being a host at a five star restaurant, or being an appellate judge. The fake mod can let her be the Enigma for a day, or Erik Sprague, or any celebrity freaks. Should we get bent at them for wanting to dip their toes in the pond of our culture? I don’t think so. After all, just because we’ve been wading in the pond for a long, long time doesn’t make the pond ours. It’s for everyone. Stay beautiful, kids.







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