My alibi is that I was upstairs sleeping. I couldn’t make it through the Monday night game so I hit the sack early.
When I woke up, my mother gave me the bad news and some lunch money. I liked the ice cream sandwiches. So I had this black Beatles t-shirt I bought myself for a Christmas gift. And I put it on in honor of the bewilderment and sadness I was feeling, depriving myself of the one Christmas gift I can recall. We must always honor our sad bewilderment. The t-shirt was a good size too small for my blossoming abdomen, stuffed with poorly digested frozen clam strips and french fries from the evening before. And cheap. Thin. I think the thread count was 5.
I wandered up and down the halls that day, as ever smelling of teenager B.O., trying not to get beat up, spat on, or mocked. And I felt the lukewarm line of defense that was afforded me by the allegiance I felt with my no doubt made-in-Taiwan shirt. I wondered if the slaves and tweens that manufactured the shirt knew what a fucking Beatle was. Were they bewildered and sad too? The picture on the front didn’t really look like the Beatles much at all, come to think of it. More like the 1965 New York Knicks or the Manson Family pre-head shave.
So, in the words of the great man himself:
“Well- I been Meat City to see for myself…”
Let’s all visit Meat City today. In our own elegant way. Won’t we?