Laisse tomber les filles
Let’s call it what it is: Girl Crazy.
I like pretty things. I like the “female of the species”. The other night, my fave, big-eyed DJ played a song for me. With a smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eye, she dropped the needle on “Dirty Old Man”, as performed by Thee Headcoatees. I’d mentioned I’d met Billy Childish and she instantly knew what song she had to play. She said she was joking, and she was, but she knew the target well.
She wouldn’t expect me to apologize. And you know what? The likelihood of me apologizing for chasing younger skirt is slim. Slimmer than them.
During my “post what-the-fuck-happened-at-The-Biltmore” interview at VGH with BC’s top stroke man (children, please), I actually told him that I’d waited this long to be a Dirty Old Man, I don’t want to ruin it now.
As it stands, I’m not a dirty “old” man; I’m a dirty “older” man. I am also a manchild, an aging would-be rock star, and I love beautiful things.
I am also not so shallow to see women as merely sexual objects and I am no predator. But I guess that is for you to decide.
I have been accused of many things, and misogyny is among them, but let me remind you that assuming that what I do and how I feel is based solely on what hangs between my legs is sexism, by strict definition.