Nobody writes an insult like this man

It occurs to me that I know a song about Loren's admirer from the Target parking lot. It's called Bicycle Kid and it's by this man, Pat Fish, the Jazz Butcher.

He's a bicycle kid, He's got his Mister T. slippers.
He's a bicycle kid, he's eleven years old.
Dog-faced spawn of a working class Tory,
Bicycle kid never does what he's told.
He's a bicycle kid and he wants to get a crossbow.
Bicycle kid had a rabbit that died:
Evil little fucker put his pet through the window,
The he ran to his mother and he cried, cried, cried.

Chorus:
So cry like an onion bicycle kid,
'Coz I'm gonna get you for the things that you did.

Bicyle kid - extortion in the playground.
What does he do with all the money he made?
Bicyle kid in Kentucky Fried Chicken
And the WHAM-BAM-RAMBO machine arcade.
He's a bicycle kid, and his mother's on Valium.
He's a bicycle kid, and his dad's on the lump.
He's a bicycle kid, and his tea's in the micro.
He's a bicycle kid and he's on the dump.

Chorus

Bicycle kid shitting in a greenhouse.
Bicycle kid down at the aquadrome.
Bicycle kid in trouble with a policeman.
Bicycle kid "he's a good boy at home".
Bicycle kid grow up and get an Escort.
Bicycle kid grow up and get worse.
Bicycle kid forget to use a condom.
Bicycle kid! It's evolution in reverse!

I mean: "Dog faced spawn of a working class Tory," dag, that's 4 insults in 8 words! Ok, 3. Bob points out that "working class" is hardly an insult.

I have a story. Pat Fish was the finger of poetic justice for me one time back in the late '80's (1990, I am corrected by a bigger fan). Here's how it happened.

I was already a Jazz Butcher devotee the first time I saw his band, The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy, live, at Max's On Broadway in Baltimore. I went to the show alone, nursed one beer so I wouldn't be drunk and stupid, approached the band afterwards... and, predictably, said something completely useless.

But as luck would have it I was wearing my Bettie Page-printed stretch pants and a ruffled tux shirt under my biker jacket (actually no luck involved, I always dressed like that back then) and wouldn't you know it, my outfit invited comment.

Turns out Pat lived nearby Alan Moore, the comic book writer and known headcase (current novel, an erotic tale featuring Dorothy Gale, Wendy Darling and Alice), and we ended up talking about comics and Augustin Pinochet. Was a nice conversation, 45 minutes or so.


Alan Moore, comic author and headcase

The next week the Conspiracy played the 9:30 Club in Washington. I wasn't going to go, but then the beloved bouncer at the 8x10 died and all my friends were embarking on a huge boozy (and probably cokey) wake - the kind of party I can happily skip.

So I drove to D.C., wearing the harlequin-printed stretch pants this time, and a jeans jacket with lace sleeves over my tux shirt. What a fashion icon I was.

As I made my way through the club, I heard my name called. I turned and there stood Jeff, the brother of an old ex-boyfriend, Mr. Back Hair. Back Hair had dumped me a couple years prior. I wouldn't have minded, but he did it in an unnecessarily mean and acrimonious way, threatening to throw me out of the car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

I said hi to Jeff, expressed surprise at seeing him there. The Jazz Butcher was a bit obscure - I had turned Back Hair into a fan, but I wouldn't have expected his brother to be one too. As we spoke, Jeff kept cutting his eyes to his left, where a very puffy guy was standing. After a minute or so, I became aware that Puffy Man was in fact Back Hair, who had previously been a little overweight, but this guy, I was alarmed he might actually pop. "Oh!" I say, "[Back Hair]! My gosh how have you been?"

In the space of 3 minutes I learn that Back Hair is pulling down 100K a year, I learn that he is driving a Miata, brews his own beer, lives in a swanky condo, throws bitchin parties, etc. I confess that I am working a shitty office job writing software documentation and living with my parents. But I don't care, because Back Hair looks like he has been drinking down what's left in the deep fryer at the end of the night. Every night. I guess to chase down that homebrew. I shake his hand and his fingers actually squish.

The lights dim, and, inspired by his grotesque bragging, and still pissed about that episode on the PA Pike, I suggest, "Hey let's get right down in front!"

The band comes out and bursts into Roadrunner. Doug(?) the bass player sees me, gives me an enthusiastic wave. At the first break Pat steps over to our side of the stage, "Hey! [Librarian]! I didn't think you were going to come tonight! Good to see you!" Plays a song in my direction later in the set.

I didn't even bother to look at Howard. See ya, squishy.