Today I was called ‘Preppie’ by kids with skateboards.

July 10, 2006

Alright, I’ve had enough. I walk to work and mostly wear cozy clothes, but sometimes, even though there is absolutely no dress code to speak of, aside, seemingly, from Please Let’s Don’t Show Up Naked, I like to wear a collared shirt now and then.

Usually on days I shave.

Nothing severe, certainly no overly starched collars, diagonal stripes, elaborate and bellicose patterns, white shoes, or any of that type of banker-wanker thing. Maybe a kinda comfy plaid button-down; y’know? Or something in a single, solid color.

So today, dressed like this, I was called ‘Preppie’ by these kids. Kids with skateboards. And tattoos.


“Huh?” I thought, looking around for the guy, the ‘Preppie’ guy they were talking about, but I was the only guy there. I’m wearing some easy plaid shirt and a pair of Nikes. And I’ve got scruffy hair. Preppie. Me? Really? I was a bit stunned. You’re fucking kidding me.

My contention in all this is such: the greater effort someone goes through to affect their outward appearance, perhaps the greater they are very alike those they seek to differentiate themselves from. I don’t know who the bigger fashion assholes are; these ‘skate punk’ people that haven’t had a punk inkling in their precious live, or those Manufactured Bimbos with the Prada bags and that peculiar type of attitude that seems to come with ownership of a specific product. Really, I wonder how long it takes to mohawk one’s hair. Lord.

Be different: dress for comfort, don’t get pierced and tatted up.

I mean: have doubts, have original ideas and thoughts and questions and stuff, think critically, read a lot, think crazy shit, and share it with people, make art, write, do something, don’t just sit on the sidewalk with your buddies. Change internally, not just externally, be punk on the inside. I dare you to. Be totally revoluntionary and real and true and passionate and original all at the same time. But go out the world the way nature brought you into it. C’mon. More inner reflection, less outward reflection. You’re covering up homogeneity with all that and I can tell.

Ok, I’m going outside. I’m not a ‘Preppie’, but feel happy that I can afford clothes that can cause me to be mistaken for one. Thank you, universe.

Love him or hate him, Lance Armstrong is PUNK.

July 5, 2006

So in 2003 Armstrong and about 4 guys are accelerating up to the finish line trying to make time on each other, and this German guy, Kloden, just happens to be up the road trying to win himself a stage after a long breakaway. About a hundred meters shy of the finish, Armstrong just surges past this poor guy, nips him right at the finish line, and when I first saw it, I was like, ‘Lance, buddy. Let Klodden have his day, keep an ally, you’ll still win overall, what was all THAT about?’ And I never really thought much more of it. But today I saw this little interview done in his hotel room right afterwards, very low quality, likely a teammate with a digi camera, where Lance is asked what was up with the stage win, and why he didn’t let Kloden take it.

And he goes:

‘I thought about it. And then I remembered all the German fans spitting on me yesterday, on Alp D’Huez, and I thought, no, he’s not gonna win it. Fuck that. This is for all those Germans, for those loogies that hit me in the face, this is for them, and he ain’t winning it. He ain’t winning it. He’s not supposed to win it. It’s not gonna happen.’

Huh. And I remembered why I used to like Armstrong’s style so much, like 10 years ago. The guy is so punk. So, so punk and I love that and want to eat it for breakfast every single morning of every single day of my life, I wanna wash it down with piping hot black coffee and go ‘ahhhhhh, now THAT’s fucking GREAT COFFEE’.

I love it that much. A whole hella’ lot. “He aint gonna win it”.

So wicked.

Laid out 2006.

July 1, 2006

I tore the ACL and the MCL outta my left knee the other day. This is 3 years after tearing the ACL out of my right knee. This time I was sprinting after the ball, alone, and there was a slight gradual slope to the sideline, which I was right up against. There were people just a few feet away, and others 20 or so from me. It just buckled and it was like getting hit by lightning. One minute you’re running and the next you’re on your back bucking around in pain. Apparently it was loud, like a clap, some people said. I guess I had an imbalance in my knee after overusing that leg ’cause of the last knee injury, on the right one.  A time bomb just ticking.

Am I bitter that this should happen just as I was getting in shape and hitting some form and confidence, not just on the soccer pitch but in life as well? Of course. But I’m surprisingly not. Because that would be letting this shitty bit of bad luck ruin too much of the good luck that goes on. It would be letting my achy, buckling trick knee govern far more of my life then I think its entitled too. We had a talk, my knee and I, and I told it, “you can do whatever the hell you want down there till we get you fixed, but you aren’t allowed to muck up the good. So fuck off and get in line.”

I’m not taking this one lying down or mopey. You can’t, or the injury wins and it takes 3 times as long to recover from.