Twilight Zone

Last night, I ventured out to see my barber DJ for a really dope local band of kids I went to school with. Shout to Last Call (Frates, Mikey D, whattup). Really tho, they’re killing it out here and put in work at Church in Boston too. Rock, hip-hop, little funkiness, and a live DJ. That said, the night was hella interesting.

Bar was packed in as well as any sub-100 capacity spot could be. Sardine tin status is an understatement. But the most uncomfortable, albeit thoroughly entertaining, thing of the night was the collection of troglodytes that threw on the most aesthetically offensive shit I’ve seen in forever.

Picture this for a minute: denim jackets mixed with same wash jeans; crusty, foot suffocating sneakers and accompanying lace jobs; fake Celtics banner bombers; a 50 year old dude with skinnies, long sleeves rolled up over past-their-prime biceps (collar popped) with a staring problem; girls who couldn’t walk in heels if they had a pistol to their backs; DC sneakers galore; and me dressed to the fucking nines.

I try not to maintain eye contact with people for fear of a misconception. Some of the outfits I saw had me in awe. Not like the awe you’re in when you see some breathtaking scenery or a picture. The awe when you come to the realization that you’re completely underwhelmed with your surroundings to the point you’re the weirdest dressed dude in the spot. Of course the dude in the Canadian tux would come and post up next to me, so that at first glance, we looked like mismatched Siamese twins. Wonderful.

One kid was about 5’6″ or so, XXL Jordan jersey in observance of the GOAT’s birthday, and the baggiest, mid thigh waisted jeans I’ve seen outside of Brockton. I recall sipping my Narragansett tallboy quicker and quicker, hoping that the drunkenness of cheap beer would hit and void my memory of the discomfort and increasing anxiety of being plotted on by scoundrels as a come-up. I always got my green eyes open, even if they’re only partially open.

All in all, Last Call killed shit, DJ C was nice on the tables, per usual, and all was good once the beers worked themselves into my blood stream. Support dope local music and enjoy the free scenery and ensuing sensory overload and confusion that goes along with it.

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