When Hair Was Rock

Time Goes By

From The New Yorker Magazine, 21 April, 2014.

Rare T-Shirt Found In Greenpeace Laundry Basket

Rare T-Shirt Found In Globe Laundry Basket

Flix Txt w/Pix

Did you ever notice how Netflix film descriptions are almost impossible to work out. Even for movies about musicians and concerts, you never know what the film is really about. I mean, you read the description, but the blurb is no help at all. I think they write these blurbs based on the studio poster thumbnails. So I did some of my own. These are real movies. I didn’t watch even one of them, but neither do they. I can’t be too far off from what these movies are all about. This took five minutes to write. And I still nailed it.

A hot girl, who for some reason refuses to wear seat belts and won’t sit down in moving cars, and who never leaves her house without wearing short shorts that highlight the lower half of her body, and who seems to always look like she just got off a horse or mechanical bull, is into men who never look at her, but love to drive their convertibles into sunny places that make them angry.

Men who age mysteriously yet somehow look better to one woman they both know who is much younger than they are, and who find themselves doomed to wearing cowboy themed clothing, and who wear cowboy hats even when they sleep, frown a lot while silhouettes of horses with riders appear mysteriously (and seductively) every night at sunset, yet remain too far away to ever become part of the story.

A large man gets lost on a mountain hunting adventure while riding his armored motorcycle wearing designer bathing suits that make him feel both good about himself in public and somehow simulatenously ashamed of his unexplained dark past in a non-mountain town someplace else where weight lifting and armored motorcycles are forbidden.

Money might fall from the sky as a man wearing a Vivienne Westwood suit faces serious environmental problems involving burning cars, terrible weather, far-away cities, and a life when his only free hand is his left hand, being forced to reserve his right hand for holding loaded pistols as a substitute for love.

Three men with huge bodies and no necks covered in tight clothes that accentuate their well-toned muscles, share their lives and loves with one another while holding M4 carbines in open clearings between palm trees, longing to be ambushed, after which they rub oil into each other’s gloriously tanned bodies while talking about their favorite kills back in their high school days.

The Songwriter

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