Yay weekend!
trouble4hire and I have spent a lot of time outside these past two days. I haven't got burnt, I have synthesised a lot of vitamin D, but my melanocytes (all 5 of them) are going EHN! in an attempt to catch up.
Yesterday we went to a dog park up in Union Square. Trouble sat in the shade, and I ran around playing tag with various dogs. My favourite was a big brown malamute who was basically a beta and just wanted love. However, a white pitbull saw the malamute and picked a fight. The mal wasn't initially interested, but the pitbull kept barking the dog equivalent of UR MUM UR MUM UR MUM until the mal just had to respond. He wrestled the pit to the ground and humped his head. When he stopped, the pit started right in with UR MUM again. The mal hopped right back on and resumed humping... and the pitbull licked his you-know-what. Apparently, that was what the pit had wanted all along. Well, gee.
Today, I tagged along with Trouble to Daddy's Junky Music, where my beloved put a down-payment on a drum kit. We are now in an unsavoury drummer/roadie relationship. Woohoo! Next stop, furtive nookie in the back of the equipment van. Also, there was this alien there:
From Blog
I was the biggest dork in the store by a factor of several million, especially when this ancient trio of black jazz musicians showed up. So I figured I might as well make the most of my dorktacularity.
Finally, I met a bunch of people who needed my advice, whether they wanted it or not, but I was too chicken to give it. Therefore, I give it to you.
Dear sad fat woman on the subway: why on Earth are you letting your boyfriend talk to you like that? Are you just going to sit there and LET him threaten you with domestic violence and murder? What kind of message is that sending to your four-year-old son? Ditch this logo-bedecked loudmouth brokeass midget. After that, you might want to stop with the spandex stretch pants, the hooker makeup, and the burnt-out looking straightening/bleach job you've done on your hair. You need to grow some self-esteem, or you're going to end up another statistic of the effect of domestic violence on black women, and your son is going to grow up just like your asshole boyfriend there. Incidentally, in case there's any question, the midget is not your son's father.
Dear beggar with shoes newer than mine: no spare change for you. Your sign is demanding a dollar- what the Hell ever happened to "spare change" anyway? You're approximately 18, and you've clearly just run away from some cushy suburban household where you can afford name-brand shoes. Speaking as someone who's held steady employment since I was fourteen, how about you get a motherfucking job? If you're really intent on doing the street-punk thing, look at the other street kids. That girl is selling some charcoal drawings, that guy found some spraypaint and cardboard and has stenciled some nifty fabric patches (I bought the transgender anarchy symbol), and that other guy is setting up a mean percussion section with a bunch of drywall buckets and refrigerator parts. Show some effort.
Yesterday we went to a dog park up in Union Square. Trouble sat in the shade, and I ran around playing tag with various dogs. My favourite was a big brown malamute who was basically a beta and just wanted love. However, a white pitbull saw the malamute and picked a fight. The mal wasn't initially interested, but the pitbull kept barking the dog equivalent of UR MUM UR MUM UR MUM until the mal just had to respond. He wrestled the pit to the ground and humped his head. When he stopped, the pit started right in with UR MUM again. The mal hopped right back on and resumed humping... and the pitbull licked his you-know-what. Apparently, that was what the pit had wanted all along. Well, gee.
Today, I tagged along with Trouble to Daddy's Junky Music, where my beloved put a down-payment on a drum kit. We are now in an unsavoury drummer/roadie relationship. Woohoo! Next stop, furtive nookie in the back of the equipment van. Also, there was this alien there:
From Blog
I was the biggest dork in the store by a factor of several million, especially when this ancient trio of black jazz musicians showed up. So I figured I might as well make the most of my dorktacularity.
Finally, I met a bunch of people who needed my advice, whether they wanted it or not, but I was too chicken to give it. Therefore, I give it to you.
Dear sad fat woman on the subway: why on Earth are you letting your boyfriend talk to you like that? Are you just going to sit there and LET him threaten you with domestic violence and murder? What kind of message is that sending to your four-year-old son? Ditch this logo-bedecked loudmouth brokeass midget. After that, you might want to stop with the spandex stretch pants, the hooker makeup, and the burnt-out looking straightening/bleach job you've done on your hair. You need to grow some self-esteem, or you're going to end up another statistic of the effect of domestic violence on black women, and your son is going to grow up just like your asshole boyfriend there. Incidentally, in case there's any question, the midget is not your son's father.
Dear beggar with shoes newer than mine: no spare change for you. Your sign is demanding a dollar- what the Hell ever happened to "spare change" anyway? You're approximately 18, and you've clearly just run away from some cushy suburban household where you can afford name-brand shoes. Speaking as someone who's held steady employment since I was fourteen, how about you get a motherfucking job? If you're really intent on doing the street-punk thing, look at the other street kids. That girl is selling some charcoal drawings, that guy found some spraypaint and cardboard and has stenciled some nifty fabric patches (I bought the transgender anarchy symbol), and that other guy is setting up a mean percussion section with a bunch of drywall buckets and refrigerator parts. Show some effort.