InsaneJournal

ha.
Look. Someone needs to keep me away from wolfshirts, ok?

Because, the crack. The crack. It is strong with these people, and I have no defence against it. None. If I keep nosing around there, I will eventually snap and write something utterly loltastic. Like the one where the My Chem boys open a tattoo shop, and Frank is constantly jumping off the counters and knocking shit over, and Bob has, like, piercing superpowers, and Ray noodles on his guitar when business is slow, and Mikey can convince the nervous, fence-sitting types to get the tattoo that's totally perfect for them with his mind. And Gerard's there too -- he does all the artwork, but he never leaves the loft upstairs because omg needles, so the customers think he's a figment everyone's imagination. Or an extremely talented ghost.

Failing that, there's always the multiband AU where they all work at Denny's and Spencer Smith is the snottiest waiter ever.

I went into Hot Topic the other day. Because, my son. My plans for the evening had included several cups of tea, The Breakfast Club, and possibly helping the xylochilde with his homework, but when I picked him up from school that day, he announced -- with much drama and emotion, and you'd be surprised how well he does drama and emotion -- that he needed a new AC/DC t-shirt.

(His taste in music is the eight wonder of the world. Seriously. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised -- I attended no less than five heavy metal concerts when I was pregnant, and my ex-husband's idea of mood music lingers somewhere between old Metallica and Iron Maiden, yet. I always blink stupidly when he fights me for my Bad Religion CDs, or when I catch him singing Social Distortion to himself while bopping around the kitchen. But, seriously. AC/DC? When Back in Black came out, my ex and I hadn't even met yet.)

So, to Hot Topic we went. The trip was a wash, as far as my son was concerned -- the only AC/DC shirt they had on offer was one my son already has -- but I found a My Chemical Romance hoodie on the clearance rack, and through some kind of miracle I don't quite understand, it was in my size. I proceeded to the counter with glee, where I was confronted with an angular boy about 20 years of age, with a black and blue mohawk.

CASHIER: *looks at the hoodie, then my son, then the hoodie, then my son*

Yeah, see. The hoodie was a size XXL, and my son weights about 14 pounds.

CASHIER: So, who's this for?
ME: Oh, um. It's for me.
CASHIER: *fish-slapped*

I bristled slightly. Because, my co-workers. I love them dearly, but my dubious taste in music is one of their favourite discussion topics, because they're mostly a bunch of indiefucks who pride themselves on listening to bands that don't even exist yet. My general response to this sort of ribbing is OMG STFU GERARD SAVES LIVES, but. My son is at the age where I can embarrass him by virtue of breathing, so I just smiled. Thinly.

CASHIER: So. *casts sideways glances at his co-workers* What are these guys up to, anyway?
ME: Um, I think they're working on a new album.
CASHIER: Wow, already? Didn't they just finish touring?
ME: *blinks*
CASHIER: And Gerard, like, just got married, didn't he?
ME: *stares*
CASHIER: And he's totally doing that comic book thing, isn't he?
ME: *gapes*
CASHIER: And I heard Frank was, like, having family problems, or something.
ME: *fish-slapped*

Right. Closet MCR fanboys for the win.

I could've done without this conversation, however, which took place on the way home.

SON: I think that guy liked you.
ME: What guy?
SON: That guy. From the store.
ME: No.
SON: You talked to him about that romance band for, like, a half-hour.
ME: Five minutes, and no.
SON: Okay.
ME: What?
SON: He had a big nose. And stupid hair.

Apropos of nothing: my computer fails at life.