Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

He finally found a place downtown near the club he was playing. A underused city parking lot that required no fee. He parked the beast and made note of where. He needed to make his getaway as effectively as possible. He was sick of playing these gigs. He usually opened for some upcoming metal band, whose fans hated his music. They tacked him on the bill because they loved it. He dealt with hours of inane hipster talk with little recourse – he played the blues, at least an archaic crossroads form of it. They loved it, but there crowd always wanted Metallica. He had no problem with the music. He just wanted to some day open for musicians more his stripe. Hell, he figured he deserved it. He had done penance long enough. He pulled his short, but solid frame from the car. His weather worn skin and brutalized stetson spoke of his days as an old dog. Long in tooth, but still strong in talent. His bones ached a little more each day, but he had his pride. He played blues originals and nothi...

I'm listening to Chris Bell and feeling really underwhelmed by graduate school today. So I figured now was as good of a time as any to flex my fiction writing muscles and post another installment of my sojourn into fiction writing -- " "The Jukebox Played An Old Sad Song." I feel that some of this story might seem a tad cliched, or intentionally pulpy, but I am going with it. Writing is an unrewarding task sometimes, but most of the time I can't imagine doing anything else.  One of these times I will put up revisions. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He grabbed a pool cue from a corner rack. The bar was somewhat of a dive with dirty concrete floors and cracked brown wall panels covered by decades old beer signs. The only new embellishments included new lights over the pool tables and large screen led televisions with 24 hour sports blaring. The pool cue he grabbed was one of the old ones; it had so...