The Man in the Blue Suit

This post was written under the influence of a completely clear mind:

After a few minutes of meticulous staring I concluded that the twenty-something girl sitting in front of me was indeed wearing a colorful thong under her ruffled white skirt. My conclusion was confirmed when she bent down to answer her cellphone, exposing the upper cusp of a thin elastic.

However, before my perverse thoughts reached a glorious peak I was interrupted by a man's voice. His voice seemed to soar above the afternoon traffic, and I was compelled to identify the bearer of such a powerful voice.

On the other side of the street I saw a middle-aged man dressed in a neatly-pressed blue suit. The suit was enhanced by his clean-shaven face and clear skin. He was standing behind a rickety table.

As I approached the table, I realized he was selling cassettes. The tapes were bootleg performances by a variety of notable artists ranging from Marvin Gaye to The Sex Pistols. He greeted me with a sincere smile, and when our twenty minute conversation ended, I found myself the new owner of three tapes: Motley Crue at the Roxy in '87, Neil Young's concert in Seattle with Eddie Vedder, and David Crosby Live in New York City.

My friend let me use his apartment to sample my new purchases. I put Motley Crue in first. The tape began with a generic audience applause followed by a voice, clearly not belonging to Vince Neil, welcoming the crowd to LA. As the show went on I became aware that the Vince Neil impersonator was severely intoxicated. For each song he would play the Motley Crue cd in the background and crudely sing over the music. There were intermittent pauses allowed for vomiting and incoherent ramblings. As pathetic as each rendition was, I was unable to turn the tape off. I felt connected to the man on the tape. His rawness exposed the disconnect between popular musicians and their fans. He seemed to criticize the elevated status of celebrities, and their manipulation of popular culture. This honesty, as always, was strangely refreshing.

I was sure that the drunk man on the tape was the blue suited man that had sold me the tape, and it was somewhere in the middle of "Girls, Girls, Girls," that I declared the small time businessman an artistic genius. I spent most of that night listening to the bootleg tapes and reaching for spiritual enlightenment.

The next day I passed the blue suited man again, but I didn't see a man in a blue suit. I saw the culmination of every famous rock 'n roll frontman, in his underwear, hopelessly plastered and singing along to the radio.