I have always wanted to make a name for myself. Sadly, that name is Poncho Zenmaster Jones. Granted, it still needs a tonne of work to be much use, but you’ve got to start somewhere. Frankly, all the good names are already taken. William Shakespeare? Used up, it seems, by some sixteenth century scribbler. Leonardo da Vinci? Long gone – occupied by a Renaissance-era paint-spiller. For pity’s sake, even ‘Engelbert Humperdinck’ is owned by two people already. I can’t say I’m all that happy with Poncho Zenmaster Jones. It’s therefore likely that I will have to stick to the name I have and do the best I can. It is, of course, simply the latest failed attempt to become cool and hip.
I have always wanted to make a name for myself. Sadly, that name is Poncho Zenmaster Jones. Granted, it still needs a tonne of work to be much use, but you’ve got to start somewhere. Frankly, all the good names are already taken. William Shakespeare? Used up, it seems, by some sixteenth century scribbler. Leonardo da Vinci? Long gone – occupied by a Renaissance-era paint-spiller. For pity’s sake, even ‘Engelbert Humperdinck’ is owned by two people already. I can’t say I’m all that happy with Poncho Zenmaster Jones. It’s therefore likely that I will have to stick to the name I have and do the best I can. It is, of course, simply the latest failed attempt to become cool and hip.
It started, as these things do, during my teenage years. At the age of fourteen, I joined my very first band. This, of course, is incredibly hip and cool – the kind of background fact that might wind its way into the opening paragraph of a Rolling Stone profile as I’m interviewed on board – if not my private jet – then at least the jet I use on a ‘timeshare’ basis with Delta Goodrem and Barry Crocker. However, a closer examination of the evidence reveals a different story. Firstly, the band in question was in support of a husband and wife duo from church. They were not fourteen – it simply wasn’t that kind of congregation – and I had been drafted to play keyboards for a bunch of songs I’d never heard before. Because they were adults, they had all the gear and I only had to show up to rehearsal and hit the occasional note in something like the right key. The drummer didn’t look so much as drafted as attending as a part of his probation. However, he had two electronic tom toms, which were deployed to great effect whenever the set showed the slightest sign of flagging. Aware that this was – to use the modern parlance – my time to shine, I made sure to wear my good shirt.
I’ve always had a ‘good shirt’. The rest were plainly evil and chosen by my parents. My hope, of course, is that I’ll grow up and move past the entire concept and begin to view my wardrobe in a more Nietzsche-like fashion, seeing my shirts as being ‘beyond good and evil’; but that day still seems a long way off. At the time, my good shirt was the purest banana yellow, with black cotton cross-hatching. It created an effect I can now describe as ‘lady finger in prison’. I wanted the shirt to make me look cool. In truth, it couldn’t even save itself.
The gigs were only a moderate success. The shirt could easily have been to blame. People stopped talking whilst we punched out our set of church-friendly foot-stompers, and some of them even looked up from what they were doing, but mostly the reception was underwhelming.
Naturally enough, I moved beyond the yellow peril short-sleeve shirt and continued my search for something to make me look hip. This was particularly difficult in the decade that was the nineteen eighties, an era that Charles Dickens famously described as, ‘the best of times and the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of the hand-held key-tar, it was the epoch of the mullet, it was the season of acid wash denim.’ You said it, Charles.
Ah, acid wash. Just the mere mention of its name causes a certain moistness to force its way into my eye. For a brief period of time, acid wash jeans were all the rage. What prompted this period of temporary, collective insanity remains unclear, but I was not immune. Those who were mere slaves to the narrow world-view of the collective masses bought their acid wash jeans at their denim emporium of choice. I, however, made my own. By this, I mean I took a pair of jeans I already owned and turned them into acid wash. Had I been responsible for constructing the trousers themselves, I’d be lucky to half way through by now. Using a bucket and some ordinary household bleach, I went the whole MacGyver on my best pants. Lucky for it, my good shirt got a reprieve, although getting dunked in a bucket full of acid is probably the least of what the yellow shirt deserved.
The results were truly eye popping. Until you’ve felt the slow burn of bleach against your skin, you don’t realize how important it is to rinse out a garment fully before wearing it. This oversight explains why, to this very day, my legs are entirely devoid of body hair. Never one to shy away from suffering for my art, the jeans were a sight to behold. As beautiful as they were, they looked like something from the wrong decade; the end result being more of a psychedelic tie-die denim that a cast-off hippy might wear coming back from Woodstock.
I don’t wear acid wash these days. The battle to be cool has been lost. In fact, I don’t much enjoy the process of shopping for jeans at all anymore. Last time I went, though, I ruefully entered the store wishing the agony would end. Or at least I did, until a very helpful shop assistant appeared who, according to his badge, was named Poncho Zenmaster Jones. He was excellent and apparently well known for his commitment to quality retail service. Truly, he has made quite a name for himself.