weasel and the white boys cool

Spent last night in a time-warp, the only thing being that I'm fatter than I was before, but it was mostly the same, same rock 'n roll band that I loved when I was 20, same crowd of regulars, same feeling that none of them give a shit about me, really. There's a big part of me that is so glad to be away from all that. Did see some good ol' boys, some old roomates and girlfriends, enquired after lent lost songwriter CD's and headed home feeling pretty fed up with it all. They've never changed the carpet, which once held a pattern, but your feet still stick to the black muck and intentions are still selfish. I did my first volunteer shift at the Fringe last night - and I'll tell you this story cuz I was quite ready to get in a fight with this guy. Picture this - stringy old tank top with well-worn black leather vest over top (so damn hot), bad fitting shorts, mullet & ball cap, maybe even a moustache. We start serving beers and I notice he's using his fingers to crack the tops. "You're not supposed to use your fingers", says I, "you need to use a spoon or something instead". "Yeah, I know," says he, "I don't fucking care." Ok well - "Umm, it's a health law, dude. Use a spoon." "Listen," he says, "I used to be the bar manager here 10 years ago and we always used our fingers, so I'm not using anything but," and turns away. Then I watch as he takes a giant handful of sunflower seeds and starts picking the empty shells out of his mouth with the same fucking fingers that he's cracking beers with. So his lovely SPIT COVERED HANDS are touching your drink, ladies and gentlemen. If you go to the beer gardens please find someone else to serve your drinks or better yet, complain loudly.