Sizing 'em Up

There is this guy who walks by my cubicle row a lot. I don't know his name and I've never met him, but I can tell who it is before he gets here just by the way he walks. I see him out of the corner of my eye with his earring and soul patch. I can't explain why, but I get an annoying sort of vibe off of him.

I'm pretty sure that I can break him.

Gother Than Thou

During some random internet cruising I came across a review of a Bauhaus album written as a poem.

Can't you just hear the dark velvet crinkling?

Self Control?

I feel like this shouldn't have to be said, but...

Seriously, if you are so large that you need some sort of implement to assist you in walking, stay away from the fucking chocolate, chocolate chip muffins.

Dude!

Deadeye Billy Strikes Again

I found out this morning that I will be inheriting my grandfather's B.B. gun. Not exactly the financial windfall that would help me against the ever increasing mountain of debt, but pretty cool nonetheless.

I have fond memories of grandpa taking me and my brother out to the porch and having him show us how to use the sighting thingies and then knocking holes in the plastic milk jugs and empty Rainier cans he'd set up on the fence post. For such a non-demonstrative sort of man, he sure got jazzed when one of us would hit a bullseye.

There are not a lot of places in an urban setting to set up a B.B. target range unfortunately. So if you start to hear stories of the Seattle B.B. Sniper... you never read this posting.

Seriously.

First and Seneca

I was walking to work this morning, Treepeople doing "Bigmouth Strikes Again" on my headphones, when the beautifully skronky sound of alto sax burst in from outside. Those metallic notes somehow fit right in with Doug Martsch doing Morissey, and it sort of spun my head around. I saw the guy on the corner, older and black, sax case opened to catch change, just getting into it. His body swayed like he was dancing those notes out of himself and I smiled so damned hard.

How many John Coltrane's are playing on city corners? How many Van Gogh's using spray cans? How many DeNiro's are pacing in their kitchens, doing monologues to their appliances? How many Henry Miller's writing letters that never get sent?

South of Downtown

There's something about spending a gray, weekend day down in the industrial wasteland part of town that just does something for me. The puddles in graveled indentations, the rusty train cars, the near-empty warehouses and factories... I don't know, it's like the pretty and shiny veneer of urban life has been stripped away, or the application was never even bothered with. I feel like a character in a brand new movie where anything can happen, and my character should be wandering around in a heavy coat and smoking.

Fred, the Cleric-Elf

I don't want to get all braggety mcbraggerson on your asses, but I have 368 experience points. And today, I am Chaotic Good.