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Who the Hell is Wayne Coyne?

Submitted by Tom Sorrell at 2014-01-23 01:53:01 EST
Rating: 0.6 on 8 ratings (10 reviews) (Review this item) (V)

The coffee shop table was covered by a green and white tablecloth and the usual accoutrement: a napkin holder, a few packs of non-dairy creamer, a handful of red stir sticks and one container of sugar with a silver top. It was an ordinary table with an ordinary man and woman in their mid-30s sitting in its high-backed wooden chairs, sipping from white paper cups wrapped with brown cardboard to protect against excessive heat. Neither of them seemed comfortable, physically or mentally, yet both pretended to be.

“Ah,” the man said, putting his cup on the table and sitting back with a semi-satisfied grin. “There’s nothing like a good cup of coffee, is there?”

He grinned, feebly, as the woman shook her head and glanced his way. He had brown eyes and dark hair, littered with single strands of gray that stood out like a Black Sabbath t-shirt in the Vatican. His name was Joseph and they’d been dating for six months. For the last three she’d hated every fiber of his being, but couldn’t figure out a way to end the relationship. Joseph grinned, awkwardly, and pushed a strand of hair behind his right ear. The woman sighed, loudly. She loathed his hair and how he spent hours trying to make it look like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was more of a woman than she was half the time.

“I said is there, B.?” he asked, reaching for his cup and taking a sip while staring at her over the lid. The woman sighed and took another sip from her cup before placing it on the table, eyeing the man coldly behind her thick-framed glassed.

“My na-ame…” she said, drawing out the word a bit longer than normal, “…is Bianca. You know I hate when you call me B. How many times do I have to tell you that, Joseph?”

“Jeez,” he replied, as he shifted in his seat. “How 'bout you relax, B.? You’re way too stressed. Maybe take a Xanax.”

Bianca pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. Joe faked a laugh and stared at the lid of his cup while fiddling with the hand protector.

“So,” he said, glancing at the platinum blond girl working the register, “Did you hear what Wayne Coyne said about Bob Dylan?”

“No,” Bianca replied, sitting up in her chair, suddenly interested. “Who the hell is Wayne Coyne?”

“Pffft,” Joseph laughed. “You don’t know who Wayne Coyne is? What’s wrong with you?”

Bianca closed her eyes and sighed.

“Who is he, Joe?” she asked through gritted teeth with her eyes closed tightly.

“He’s the lead singer for The Flaming Lips. How do you not know that? They’ve been around since the ‘90s. What are you, retarded or something?”

Bianca opened her eyes and glared at Joseph, who was giggling and staring at the cashier.

“Oh, like you're some big fan," she hissed. "Name one song of theirs other than ‘She Don’t Use Jelly'."

Joseph thought for a long moment, struggling to think of an answer as he pushed another strand of hair behind his left ear and looked the cashier’s way again.

“Uh,” he began, “Robo-something-or-other. I forget. Japanese … robo … I don’t know. Who cares? I'm not a fan of the band, but at least I know who Wayne Coyne is.”

Bianca nodded and chuckled, then mumbled the word idiot under her breath.

“What?” Joseph asked, suddenly looking her in the eyes.

“Nothing,” she said with a thin smile.

“Uh huh,” he said, turning his head towards the cashier and looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Anyway, he called Bob a curmudgeon. He said he doesn’t try hard. Said it’s his loss that he didn’t hang out with Jim James over in Europe or his band a decade ago or whatever. I don't know. He was just talking a lot of shit.”

“What an asshole,” said a young man at the next table, pecking away at a laptop.

Bianca looked at the man and nodded, then turned to Joseph.

“Who the hell are The Flaming Lips? What have they ever contributed to music or culture or society? One mediocre song that got too much airplay in the early 90s? A terrible cover of ‘Plastic Jesus’? ‘Japanese-robo-something-or-other’? Please. All that band has done is inspire a legion of smug, snarky fans who think they know more than everyone else because they like a band no one likes. To hell with them. Why should anyone care what their douchey front man has to say about anything, especially someone who’s a thousand times more talented than him?”

The man at the laptop grinned and nodded at Bianca, who smiled back, then turned and waited for a reply. Joseph stammered for a moment before finally managing to speak.

“Well,” he began, “I mean … I heard Bob wouldn’t hang out with the guys from My Morning Jacket. He didn’t say a word to them the entire tour. He just hung out by himself.

“He’s a thousand years old!” said the man at the laptop. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people? When will you ever leave that old fucker alone?”

Joseph glared at the man on the laptop for a moment as Bianca leaned forward in her chair, nodding in agreement.

“He's right,” she said, “Do people not realize this is 2014? Dylan’s done everything. He doesn’t need to do it again for the new generation. All he has to do is make music. He doesn't have to party or sit around talking about the good old days and Triumph motorcycles and Newcastle and Edie and all that. He’s done with it. The man is old. Let him be old."

The man at the laptop nodded. Joseph shook his head.

"They just want to hear his stories."

The man at the laptop scoffed.

"He's written ten million songs! Every one of them is a story!"

Bianca laughed and nodded.

"Exactly. Why do they want to hear his stories, anyway? Don’t they have grandfathers of their own? They wouldn’t want to talk to him if his name wasn’t Bob Dylan, but because it is they throw a pity party for themselves and tell the press … the fucking press, of all things … that he won’t hang out with them. I mean … really? Are you kidding me?”

Joseph scoffed. The man at the laptop nodded, emphatically.

“I wouldn’t hang out with those guys either,” he said as he punched a button on his computer. Bob Dylan’s "Idiot Wind" played through the speakers at max volume…

“Someone’s got it in for me. They’re planting stories in the press,” Bob said, all the way back in 1974. “Whoever it is I wish they’d cut it out quick, but when they will … I can only guess.”

The man at the laptop grinned and pointed at the machine. Bianca smiled and nodded. Joseph turned red.

“Sir,” the cashier yelled, “You’re going to need earphones if you want to listen to that.”

“I wish that guy had on a pair of earphones,” the man replied, as he turned off the song and pointed at Joseph with his thumb. “Because he obviously can’t hear shit.”

Joseph growled and stood up in his chair, nearly foaming at the mouth.

“What did you say, slim?” he screamed, pulling his right arm back to throw a punch. "I'll kick your scrawny ass all over this place!"

The man at the laptop grinned and calmly waved his right hand. Joseph’s arm froze in mid-air. The entire place fell silent.

“What the…” Joseph said, staring at his arm. “How did you do that?”

“This is my world,” the man at the laptop said. “I can do whatever I want. Now sit down before I send your dumb ass off to the rings of Saturn with the sand worms.”

Joseph nodded and sat down, pale as a ghost. Bianca looked at him for a long moment.

“I think we should break up,” she finally said.

Joseph’s jaw dropped. The man at the laptop grinned and took a sip of coffee, then turned to Joseph as Bianca collected her things and stood up.

“Something’s happening, but you don’t know what it is ... do you?”

Joseph shook his head as Bianca gave him the finger and walked out the door, out of his life forever. The man at the laptop nodded once, took a sip of coffee, closed his laptop and cracked his knuckles.

“Ah,” he said, sitting back with a satisfied grin. “There’s nothing like a good cup of coffee, is there, Joseph?”

Joseph slowly shook his head and stared at the tablecloth, then grabbed at his chest.

"Oh no," he screamed. "Not a heart attack!"

The man nodded and smiled. A moment later Joseph was on the floor. The last thing he saw was the man with the laptop wave goodbye as the bells rang over the door of the coffee shop.

This is Wayne Coyne. Seriously. And no, I didn't edit this. This is a real picture..jpg
This is Wayne Coyne. Seriously. And no, I didn't edit this. This is a real picture..jpg

Review This Item




Submitted by bart at 2014-02-07 08:54:45 EST (#)

Submitted by Random Joe at 2014-01-29 02:02:12 EST (#)
Rating: -2

Submitted by Random Joe at 2014-01-29 00:16:25 EST (#)
Rating: 2

Don't know. I didn't put em there.

Submitted by Tom Sorrell at 2014-01-28 21:52:31 EST (#)

What's with all the links below you?

Submitted by Random Joe at 2014-01-28 20:27:31 EST (#)
Rating: 2

OK, that's cool.

I put the comment below, but I ain't Random Joe.


Submitted by Random Joe at 2014-01-28 20:26:16 EST (#)
Rating: 2

Tl:dr, below

Submitted by CaptainThorns at 2014-01-24 09:36:39 EST (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by rats at 2014-01-24 04:48:02 EST (#)
Rating: -1


Submitted by JonnyX at 2014-01-23 13:37:55 EST (#)
Rating: -1

But whom killed him, and why?

Submitted by Yozz at 2014-01-23 10:29:25 EST (#)
Rating: 2

Mmmmmm, Xanax.

Yes! Oh, yes! Read it and weep! In your face -- I got more chicken

-- Homer Simpson
When Flanders Failed