Further Notes On Music Creep (this is semi-fictinal,based as close as shaving with a Norelco, to some creep I once had dealings with)

There's been the same cultural carnage back near New Hope, Pa., as there has been most places, with houses rotting to the ground, arson waves, and Levitt Town construction projects.   There was the exodus of attractive, talented people, and the inflo of half way facilities, for people playing with half  the preferred card count.  You can measure time in clever bistros that opened in closed inside of a blinking city block of similarly transient store fronts.   The morphology on the artificial finger nail salons, alone, explain a thousands times more of ethnic drift than you could stuff your mind with at an Ivy League school.  Small restaurants are the mayflies urban renewal.

All places become an attractive nuisance sooner or later.  People move in and become a pain in the ass.  They colonize, with the benefit of professional help, like medically altered ants.  More assholes move in.  You get urban unpleasantness.  This tends to erupt from the surface, like an insect bite, on the the surface of a gentrification initiative, in all cases initiated by a sector of the middle class that is best able get public money for it all.   These creeps always profit, because the money comes from the taxpayers.  There is no such thing as being culpable.

 I met this scum bag guitarist in the aforementioned town, and this prick helped to distinguish the place from all the other locations that went down over the  embittered past thirty two years.  When I moved into the rooming house I was calling home for about a year, The music assole was living in the room directly across the hall.   At first it seemed almost normal that he was overly friendly, always knocking on my door to ask a small favor, or express fraternal interest, which is one of a jillion deviant social skills free for the picking, in the garden of earthly creeps and perverts.  I was much younger than, and rather oblivious to the whole business of stalkers.

In the day, Mr. Scuzzbuckets was a featured regular attraction at what was then The Cable Car Theater.  It was a fuzzily venerated small theater, formerly all stage productions, currently a movie theater with featured side shows like Mr. Scuzz.  He would do several short sets a night, before, at intermission, and at closing of the arthouse films the joint specialized in.  Here again, sic transit gloria bullshit, the sector of the middle class that had enabled this type of venue fizzled away before the dot com economy shitstormed in to preplace the old middle class establishment with the New World Order, in oblong cans containing a hard drive and screen, like canned fish, only sorely more influential.  To shorten history, the old hippies who still had jobs in the early 80s are mostly dead.  And the guitar wizard is still alive.   So I've decided to share his memory, or my memories of him, with the dysfunctional family form, in series form.  If want more of this prick, it's coming up here.