far too much writing, far too many photos

Seen on the Metro recently during the evening rush-hour, in a car crowded with people in business attire: a 30ish guy seated mid-car sporting a long, dirty blonde billy-goat style chin beard — a thick tuft of hair jutting out from the point of his jaw, waving around mid-air. He sat expressionless, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. A baseball-style cap (bill forward) emblazoned with a “Motley Crüe” logo perched atop his head. The rest of his outfit: a black-leather jacket bore insignia on both biceps which THE CLASH in big, white block letters; blue jeans; heavy, scuffed, thick-soled black shoes. When he stood up to get off at la estación Callao, I saw his hair had been pulled back into a long, thin braid that hung down from the rear of his Motley Crüe headpiece, terminating just above his butt.

I got off at the next stop. On exiting the train, I could hear the churning sound of an electric guitar pumping out heavy metal, growing louder as I ascended the stairs from the Metro platform. At the first cross-passageway, a rocker in black leather and black jeans stood about ten feet down the corridor, feet wide apart, planted solidly on the concrete floor, the player bent over his instrument, pick hand flailing away at the strings, the thick, swirling sound of tortured chords filling the hallway around him. He paid no attention to the stream of Madrileños in office dress hurrying by, heading home after a long day of work. They in turn paid no attention to him.

I moved on, out of the station and up the stairs into cold air and busy evening streets.

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