I AM A MARKED MAN

The extortionist at the Belmont Saturday night marked my hand with an indelible permanent marker. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t tattoo my ass, but shit. Two days later, and it’s still as strong as ever. I feel like a male Hester Prynne without the fun part, unless you think sitting a few feet in front of a giant speaker, blood trickling from your earholes as a band performs way out on the cutting edge, creating pure white noise unencumbered by such bourgeois trappings as words and music, is an orgasmic experience. What was kind of strange was I looked out on the crowd, and they were all doing white-guy head bobs, even the black guys. Even Devon, although he was bobbing twice as fast as anyone else--to the extent that I began to wonder if I should ask around for an epi pen to stab him in the heart with. Boy, wouldn’t he have been pissed if I had jumped to a false conclusion! But ever since seeing Pulp Fiction I’ve wanted to stab someone in the heart with a needle, and the chance to do so doesn’t come around any day, so maybe he would understand. At any rate, I’m still walking around with a fucking B on my hand, severe hearing loss, and no heart-stabbing experience. Man, life sucks.