The writing on the mirror

Either the bro dudes have noticed that the housing boom and their easy money days are ending, or someone just dumped a lot of cheap cocaine on the market around here. I have seen more coked-out 25-40 year old mortgage bro guys this week than in the six months previously. I mean really fucking HIGH AS A KITE, flying, twitchy and loud, eyeballs making Ren & Stimpy noises, inappropriate affect, sweating, jaw clenching, everything.

The last one I saw tonight was standing on Newport Blvd near 17th with a couple of other guys. He had that overly-tanned and haggard skin, sunglasses pushed up on hiss spiked hair, a coating of sweat on his face, and office dress shirt and pants. As I waited at the stoplight he suddenly tugged sharply on his shirt so that he seemed to rip a couple of buttons off, exposing the top part of his chest. Then he yelled at them: “Revenue. Revenue, revenue. REVENUE!” And then the light turned green and I drove away.

14 thoughts on “The writing on the mirror

  1. Ugh, my mom and I had some heated conversation last night and she brought up her middle-aged-middle-class-person tirade about “meth addict poor people sucking from the system”. I had to really explain to her that the amount of “professional” people who are on meth, coke, etc. is staggering, and this perfect world of Orange County is really not that perfect, and it’s not being destroyed by poor single meth addict mothers sucking the community’s system. grrrrrrr.

    1. You get ten free grams with your change of address slip
      I have no idea where anybody would get it in their head that Orange County is perfect at all. Perfection is New York City (which is Cherokee for, “center of own little universe”) where everybody simply acknowledges ahead of time that everybody is fucking crazy and coked out.

      1. Re: You get ten free grams with your change of address slip
        Snippet of life in New York: I am catching a subway. Three young men are standing by a broken toll turnstile, and are charging people a reduced rate to enter. They are incredibly drunk, but interestingly, have now moved on to drinking milk. It is winter, and I am wearing a parka. As they rough-house with one another, one is knocked into me and spills milk all down my front. With very slurred speech, he apologizes and starts mopping at my front with a dirty napkin. He looks up at what he’s doing, and loudly proclaims, “Hey, you’re a woman!”
        There are few things quite so good for the ol’ self-esteem as being mistaken for a man by an oddly polite drunken street-tough as he realizes that he’s unintentionally man-handling your breasts. This, I might add, is among the better of my New York experiences.

  2. “Revenue”: the new “dude, you’re sooo money” ?
    On a tangent; I suspect that the recent fall in cocaine prices is partly responsible for the recent deterioration in the quaility of “indie” music, from a hotbed of leftfield creativity to another hypercompetitive marketplace of egomaniacal careerists with repetitive riffs and designer clothes.

    1. Ouch, you could be right! It really does look like 1974 out there. Bad music, bad clothes, bad drugs. Can I have the new punk yet?

      1. Dude, where I am, indie-rock has been coke central for at least 5 or 6 years.
        What happened to make the loud sucking noise of indie-rock noticeable to you?

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