observations from Camden

Doesn’t it kind of destroy the “limo vibe” when it says “1-800-2RENT-ME” on the side of it? I guess I’ve always thought that a limo was supposed to give the impression that you were either so filthy rich, or so unbelievably popular, that you either owned your own limo or were provided one by the people you’ve graced with your presence. When I see one with “RENT ME” on the side of it, the only thing I can ever think is; “You spent $500 to rent a limo for the night? That’s a HUGE waste of money!” And also, in case you’re actually considering a limo rental in the near future, when you hang out the window, everybody knows you’re looking to be “seen in a limo”. ??? Am I the only one who thinks limos have become tacky? Were they always tacky and I just didn’t know it? It seems to me that limos are for prom kids and even then, they’re tacky.

Having just gone back and read over that paragraph, I can see that I’m really just coming off as somebody who’s bitter that he’s not getting to ride in the limo. Sigh. It isn’t true.

Yesterday I attended a fantasy football draft in Camden. In case you’re not familiar, Camden is where the punks hang out……and also where Amy Whinehouse lives. To live or hang out in Camden, you must have at least two of the following: face and/or neck tattoos, coloured hair, a non-traditional hair cut, at least one leather article of clothing, multiple piercings (earlobes don’t count), boots, florescent accessories, and/or several visible scars.

So as I’m walking through Camden yesterday in my number twenty-six, Rod Woodson, Steelers Jersey, I’m feeling like I have a sign on my chest, back, and forehead, that reads “please kick my *&%”. In my normal job setting, I have to admit that I usually feel like the coolest person in the room. By far. I’m just being honest. And it’s been that way for quite a few years. But there are days when that suddenly and dramatically changes in an instant. I get on the train, feeling good, headphones firmly planted in my ears and pounding out a great soundtrack, and then come up out of another tube station and feel like I just put on twenty-years, forty-pounds, and any article of clothing from my father’s closet. It isn’t a good feeling. I keep telling myself that it has nothing to do with getting older; that I wasn’t cool in high school either. Still, one has to wonder; when is it officially safe to call it a mid-life crises? I’ll never be able to afford a Vet, so this may be as good as it gets. Anyway, I should really wrap up this post. I think the peroxide has probably set by now.