Two girls came by the house this afternoon. They handed me a box, looked at each other for a second, and ran away.
Given the appearance of the girls, I was expecting it to be something gross, maybe in retaliation for yesterday’s post on the nastiness of dog-punching nomadic crusties. I don’t know what I thought would be inside. It was a small box. Maybe, I thought, it could be a well-worn pair of gutter punk underwear, or, perhaps, a handful of dog hair infested with bedbugs. It turned out to be something worse.
Apparently these two impressionable young street urchins had been sent by the men of Manhole, or, as they’ve taken to calling themselves lately, Manhood. The band, it would seem, wanted me to have one of their new t-shirts.
And, yeah, that’s me on the shirt, wearing pink flamingo glasses, like a 65 year old woman who wants desperately to show her friends how “wild” she is. Maybe that’s how they see me – like an old woman trying to be hip. Actually, it’s not a bad analogy, now that I think about it. There’s another possibility, though. Maybe they respect me, the way one respects an elderly uncle who survived something terrible, like a war, by eating lice and drinking his own urine. And, I guess, it could have something to do with them changing their name to Manhood. Maybe they want to grow up to be like me when they reach manhood, wasting their lives away online and in bars, instead of giving in to the temptation of a sedentary existence in front of the television, or, worse yet, with family. Or, maybe they just wanted to fuck with me. I suspect the truth is somewhere in between. It usually is.
On the off chance that you’d like a shirt for yourself, I suspect that they’d sell you one at a show. Or, if you wait a year or two, they may even give you one.
Oh, and let this be a lesson to you if you post photos on Facebook. You never know what kind of derelict is going to download your picture, photoshop some whacky glasses on it, and put it on a t-shirt.
I’m not pissed, though. I’m honored, actually. They’re good guys. Or at least they seem to be. Two of them even talk to me. And one of them wears an ascot. That’s enough in my book… At any rate, here’s hoping they make it big in the music industry, so that I can sue their asses off.
If you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing Hole Hood, here’s a little video from this summer’s Shadow Art Fair.
[note: If it wasn't clear, about the girls who came to give me the box, I was kidding. They didn't look like acolytes of the Manson family. They were quite lovely, actually, and nice. They were also relatively clean, by Ypsi standards. And they didn't run away, so much as walk.]