I tend to dress like a teenage runaway most of the time, all 100% cotton and untied Chuck Taylors, regardless of whether I'm home or at the gym or avoiding eye contact with former neighbors in the Food Lion parking lot. Today I rocked one of the many Morrissey-themed tees from my collection, the one that is several washings too small so my right boob gives him a forehead goiter.
Anyway, I'm in the Y's weight room, staring at myself in the mirror and wondering when I developed a Predator-ish forehead vein when I notice a guy looking at me. Or, more specifically, looking at the Mozzer's misshapen face.
"Morrissey, huh?", he says. I lower my weights and nod. His eyes are a deep Windex-y blue and they are both fixed on my boobital region, which hasn't happened since...ever. "That's hilarious."
"Wait," I say, turning around so I'm not speaking to his reflection. "What do you mean hilarious?"
"You know. Like, irony or whatever. I have a Kool and the Gang shirt that I break out from time to time." He picked several terrycloth droppings off his shoulder and lazily snapped the towel at the forty-five pound plates.
Let me point out that I do have tees that I launder with, like, irony or whatever, from the one with Jimmy Carter's face beneath the words "Politicians Do It With Their Mouths" to the stack of shirts that imply that I enjoy country music or have recently had sex with another person. Those are hi-effing-larious. But I do, in fact, dig Stephen Patrick Morrissey and am willing to shop the Hot Topic clearance section to prove it.
"Um, yeah, I really do like Morrissey".
"Wow. Really?" I'm not sure he would've been any more surprised if I told him I was making a quilt out of my own scabs.
"For serious," I said, picking up another pair of twenty-pound tetanus risks.
"I'm sorry," he told me, using a tone that sounded like he was more upset that I spent my free time singing along with "Cemetry Gates" than he was about insulting the pre-shrunk pop star I'd wrapped myself in. "At least it's not Huey Lewis or something."
I started another set and decided I'd just let that one go.
So tomorrow I'll be spending six Slim Jim and McGriddle-filled hours on I-77, heading to Ohio to see the aforementioned Morrissey again. Why? Because after this April's annual installment of governmental sodomy, my bank account will be emptier than Oprah's womb. I may as well blow my last few bucks on something I know all the words to.
Get ready, Columbus, cause I'm heading your way. I'll be the one in the Morrissey t-shirt.