Part 3

Part 3

I ride an old rusty Vespa. It’s belonged to a long line of Richmond scooterists, and I’m told at one point someone was bitten by another human over possession of it. It’s late December and this morning the obscenely large lock I bought to ward off the adolescent neighborhood scooter thieves was frozen shut, a clear indication that it’s too fucking cold to be riding. In sinister chorus with this situation, the car grunts at being roused before noon and refuses to start. The lock will yield to persistence, but the car battery is out like an amateur drinker on New Year’s Eve.

If you know me you might be asking yourself why I am up before noon, which is the same question invariably lurking in the stagnant battery acid and echoing vaguely through the lifeless wires under the hood of my car as it replies to the alarm of the starter with a persistent snooze button.

I got a job.

A real one.

It’s not important what it is. It’s stressful, it’s early, and it’s not enough hours. Other than to say that I have to deal with a lot of angry animals, I’m not going into detail. Like corporate News, I am prioritizing information, sorting and filtering, choosing what knowledge you should gain access too, and what I don’t want or care for you to know. So there’s your soundbyte: Artist gets day job. Coworkers astonished at mode of transportation. Artist cold and indifferent to office opinion.

As for Captain Morgan, for all its nascent opportunities, like money, instant yet fleeting popularity and the company of cock-tease escorts, I’m not the type of asshole I need to be in order to live with myself doing that shit. You can only pretend to be cool with frat boys who want to know Where’d you get them ho’s? so many times before the reality of institutional misogyny starts to weigh on your conscience for supporting it. Not that I didn’t enjoy looking at them, but contrary to popular opinion, I believe you can ogle someone respectfully…particularly if they’re scantily clad enough to make a deposit in the proverbial spank bank. There’s another soundbyte for you.

And besides, who wants to be sober in a bar?

So I quit, but not for my girlfriend, or any demonization of my former employer, who was actually kinda cool in a way completely incompatible with anyone I voluntarily associate with. If I could have had a few drinks before my willing and public self-degradation, I might have kept with it. I’m sure they’ll find someone else to fill the oversized leather boots and don a faux moustache.

“But dude, you’re Captain Morgan, you’re The Man!”

No, you’re The Man, I’m The Captain.

And: Damn The Man.