Exerpts...
...go well with procrastination.
Ok fine, I miss you Michigan. I would even suffer the obnoxious art fair people just to walk your familiar streets and see Michael-Jackson-dancin’-man, eat at the Fleetwood, and be lazy on the diag. Fuck, I’d even go to Ricks with Freda. That’s how much I care.
”Scott, all you need to do is get your ass on an airplane and get down here. I have the perfect therapeutic place for you, man: No cars, just bikes, all neighborhood streets. We start with a breakfast tacos, we go to the springs, we get a smoothie, maybe take a nap, get some enchiladas or maybe some barbecue, have a margarita, see some music, get up the next day at ten. Everyone here’s as sweet as pie. You’ll feel like a new man, I promise.”
- David Ansel ”The Soup Peddler” of Austin
They have broken through my defenses and my arms, legs, ass are now a series of swollen, ichy masses. I sleep with one eye open and my Benedryl pen clutched in my hand. It is only a matter of time before they take my face. Damn those fat mosquito bastards.
They asked me once if I sleep there at school. They also wonder if me and my much taller, blond Bostonian co-worker and I are sisters and live together. I told them that before coming here she and I were part of a traveling family band that roamed the earth solving zany mysteries while playing our unique mix of afro-cuban bluegrass. Needless to say, they didn’t buy it.
Ok fine, I miss you Michigan. I would even suffer the obnoxious art fair people just to walk your familiar streets and see Michael-Jackson-dancin’-man, eat at the Fleetwood, and be lazy on the diag. Fuck, I’d even go to Ricks with Freda. That’s how much I care.
”Scott, all you need to do is get your ass on an airplane and get down here. I have the perfect therapeutic place for you, man: No cars, just bikes, all neighborhood streets. We start with a breakfast tacos, we go to the springs, we get a smoothie, maybe take a nap, get some enchiladas or maybe some barbecue, have a margarita, see some music, get up the next day at ten. Everyone here’s as sweet as pie. You’ll feel like a new man, I promise.”
- David Ansel ”The Soup Peddler” of Austin
They have broken through my defenses and my arms, legs, ass are now a series of swollen, ichy masses. I sleep with one eye open and my Benedryl pen clutched in my hand. It is only a matter of time before they take my face. Damn those fat mosquito bastards.
They asked me once if I sleep there at school. They also wonder if me and my much taller, blond Bostonian co-worker and I are sisters and live together. I told them that before coming here she and I were part of a traveling family band that roamed the earth solving zany mysteries while playing our unique mix of afro-cuban bluegrass. Needless to say, they didn’t buy it.