Straight Talk

As far as he was concerned he could walk into a grocery store and walk past a good looking chick, and she could be like, "Hey, man.  You're like a loser.  You're like a loser scumbag, scumball dude!"

And he'd be like, "Ya! Whatever, man.  I don't give a shit!"

And then he'd just go about his business. Slowly, moodily, because his back was giving him trouble, he'd meander through the shelves looking for specialty food items like freshly ground sea salt.  Because he had a secret.  And that's all a man really needs, is something special, something to keep to himself.

He didn't have the looks like the beautiful girls that dotted the checkout lines.  But who cared?  Who really cares about the straight man dreams of lifeless automatons buying frozen yogurt in sweaty black yoga pants and ponytails and freshly painted lipstick.

He was an old age new age man.  He was a Walter Benjamin, challenging today's ready acceptance of the ironic and tired.  He was FUCKING EARNEST AS SHIT.  He may have walked with no moral authority, and looked away when you talked to him, but he had the maddening crazy glare of a mongoloid who knew something.

Because, HE WAS ON TO SOMETHING.

You couldn't take that away.  No matter what.