When love comes to town gonna catch that train, when love comes to town gonna catch that flame.
Ironically, in the flight of the moment he failed to realize that this coal car had seen neither engine nor caboose in 13 years. It has indeed come to town, has been in town for a while and likely will be in town for a while to come. Smooth move, man, smooth move.
Nikon F3, E-series 50/1.8, Ilford HP5+
But..what if I want a Guac-Burger?
…?
WE CAN CHANGE!
*ka-clink*……*ka-clink*..*ka-clink*
*whirrrrrrrrrrrr*
*ssshhhhHHHHHhhhckk* ( <– the sound of a vacuuming/sealing machine)
…
Ta-daaah!
We can change.
(we’ll bottle it too, if you want; just bring $3 for the deposit, glassware ain’t cheap)
That’s my new (and likely semi-permanent) favorite phrase.
This how it came about. We were sitting eating hamburgers and salads, and I was reading the backside label on the bottle of Newman’s own Light Honey Mustard dressing.
It went like this:
The Great Salad Dressing Balloon Race. An armada of balloons loaded with Light Honey Mustard. The starters gun – Bazoombah! They all rise majestically into the air. Newman’s Own Balloon, with fewer calories, more taste, and secretly propelled by charity, flies faster than Kraft and further than Wishbone. First across. First on the ground. El Piloto quaffs much quaffs of Newman’s Own Light Honey Mustard in victory. A medium light Italian starlet, daughter of Butch Cassidini, named Bitch Cassidini, leaps into the balloon basked, kisses Piloto, her lips smeared with Newman’s Own Light, she murmurs, “You taste of Sicily, of Vesuvius, of Naples, baby,” and patting his fanny she whispers, “and no fat.”
–the ingredients list is after that, followed by the nutrition information. That is nuts! It’s slightly vulgar and very odd. It’s seriously gutsy and awesome marketing. Naturally I then read the backside label on the bottle of Newman’s Own Ranch Dressing:
LEGEND: When Butch Cassidy got zapped in Bolivia circa 1911 by the local cavalry, he had a revolver in his hand, six peso in his pocket, and a recipe for Ranch Dressing in his safe deposit box which was later given to me in reverence of the motion picture and in return for a percentage of the gross. On the back of this recipe in Butch’s own hand was writ: This stuff is so good it ought to be outlawed.
Again, awesome marketing.
After a bit of talk and laughing and some mild arguing, this happened:
David (me): “and that marketing director had to stamp it off, and be like ‘yeah, put that on a label-
Jason (my brother) finished the sentence: -baby.”
And so it was made: put that on a label, baby.
That’s my new line; I think I’m going to keep it for a while too.
(written June 2nd 2010)
So, I rode the motorcycle to school today; ah man, I love it. It was rainy out, but that didn’t matter. Just like lemonade is great because it’s both sugary and acidic, riding a motorcycle is great because of both the sunny and the rainy days.
That all isn’t too relevant, except for the rain part. It was rainy in the early afternoon today, when I rode to school.
I parked the bike in an alley by my favorite cafe and began to walk to class. I turned in my last homework earlier that morning and was walking to my last class…like…legit, last class here, now and at UW. This class has no final exam…only the aforementioned already-turned-in paper. So this is it. The feeling of walking to that class must be a tiny bit like what Usain Bolt felt as he celebrated his 100m Olympic smash-win before the race was even over. Well…ok, maybe it wasn’t that epic. But if felt kinda awesome.
What I’m trying to say is that I was very content while walking to class; I was taking it all in.
Any Husky knows the main walkway down the middle of the quad is not a level surface; after a few years one gets used to it and can take the depressions and rises in easy casual stride, without so much as a downward glance. I’m definitely all there.
I’m walking to class, through the quad; almost there. It was still raining, so I’d left my helmet on for the walk. It is a typical full face motorcycle helmet, DOT and Snell approved and all that jazz. A sizable and vented piece of it protects my chin and beard very well; this lower-face-protection also kills my lower peripheral vision, but that’s not an issue for riding, since one doesn’t spend too much time looking at the gas tank. For walking it also didn’t bother me, because I was content and looking all around and taking in the sights, sounds and smells (I had the visor up) of the quad. Then out of nowhere somehow this random dude and I made eye contact–he was sorta staring at me, while walking perpendicular, crossing my path 30 or 40 feet ahead. He grinned…I was a bit confused. He went back to walking on his way, but glanced back again at me, grinned a little bit, then went on his way. I now believe that, just before this eye contact, he actually looked somewhere I hadn’t, namely directly-in-front-of-me.
Just as he wiped that silly grin off his face I splooshed right into a gigantic puddle I didn’t see because of the great part of my helmet that protects my chin and beard, and because I was so contentedly looking everywhere but directly-in-front-of-me. As the rainwater washed over my shoe and soaked my sock, I thought quickly: I was on my pre-victory walk. It was OK. I confidently splooshed through the rest of the puddle.
Something was amiss. My boxers were not right. Wallace must’ve felt something like this in The Wrong Trousers.
I had dressed hurriedly after my morning shower, grabbing just-dried clothes out of the drier and jumping into them like I was flying madly to catch a bus–which I was. Being late to class is not a way to impress the girl who’s always on time…more on that in a moment. I made my bus, barely, and now sat in my regular spot. In the mad bus-catching routine I hadn’t noticed it, but now I did.
My boxers were not right; they were scrunched, and it was bad.
I tried the butt-shift to straighten out this miscreant pair of boxers. It’s definitely the static, I thought. Just-dried cargo shorts (warm and comfy!) + just-dried boxers = static. Duh. I couldn’t get them in order though, not with the mere butt-shift…this case called for more intensive remediation.
I stepped off the bus–this route runs through campus and drops me off right by the building of my first class; I did not have much time or distance. Boxer-wearers out there, I’m sure you all know this move: the slight-leg-shake-step. If you wear boxers and don’t know it, then you should; it’s inconspicuous and useful. You can fix your undergarment while simply looking like you’re shaking out your leg muscles, as if cramped or sore from the previous day’s strenuous workout. Brilliant. I took two steps with this move, opting for the left leg. It didn’t work. My boxers refused to get their act together; they actually seemed even more scrunched about. Not cool.
Double-slight-leg-shake (i.e. both left and right, one after the other) for four steps. This one’s less inconspicuous, but much more effective. It didn’t work.
Oh hi Sally Jane!
(Name changed for privacy’s sake. Let’s just say that Sally Jane is a very nice and very pretty girl who I may or may not have wanted to impress at the time)
Say what? Oh that? Haha, I’m actually OK, just trying to shake out my quads and calves–I did my regular hill running workout yesterday; I’m just trying to be a bit quicker on the pitch so I can stuff a few more goals in the net before the season is up.
Oh, you play soccer too? Right on! What position do you play? Oh you’re a forward too? That’s so cool! We should go kick it around someti–
–two things happened:
1. I became aware that my boxers were not scrunched about. It was a sock! A miscreant sock had clung tightly to my boxers. This distracted me, so I stopped talking.
2. This sock, for some reason I will never know, suddenly renounced it’s allegiance to static cling and decended gracefully out of my cargo shorts. It landed square between my feet.
(Ah..well, to be honest #1 happened as #2 happened)
But I’m better than that. In the twinkling of a moment, without missing even a fraction of a beat, I deftly and casually shifted my footing to cover the sock with my fancy running shoe. With a confident air I glanced back up and began to ask about her weekend.
So how was–
She was looking at my feet. I looked at my feet. I’d missed, and the sock was sticking out from under my shoe.
The End.
Disclaimer:
This may or may not have actually happened. I say this because if it did happen, I’d like you to think it didn’t (no duh), and if it didn’t I’d like to not ruin the fun by having you think it didn’t. Your call.
Number One
In anticipation of June lemonade stands
I was pedaling slowly up the hill from Magnuson park on my good old road bike. Just taking my time I told myself, but I think not having my strong biking legs from when I rode more had a bigger part to play in it than the relaxed morning. Regardless, as I puttered up the hill, a fellow of about my age cranked past me on an old beat up mountain bike. My word, he was hoofing it.
I made it up the hill to right near Roosevelt High School, locked up my bike and walked around the area, thinking, not thinking, averting-a-potential-mugging, and looking for and occasionally taking photos. Then I saw him again. He was, with a relaxed a lazy-summer pace, riding back to where he’d come from, towards the hill down to the lake. Dangling off his handlebars was a newly-acquired sack of three yellow lemons from the farm-market-store across the street.
I thought, thought and then smiled.
Warming-springtime lemonade.
Number Two
An inner tube’s fate
I was riding along on the sidewalk of 15th, north of 55th, enjoying the blue sky. Again, I was taking my time meandering along, so I was not terribly paying attention to the walk in front of me. For a moment I did pay attention, just in time to see all the shattered glass as I rode over it. Ah crap I thought–but maybe I’ll get lucky.
I wasn’t wearing gloves, so I had to use my foot to clean my tires as I rode. This is a fine art–too little pressure, and you risk not sufficiently cleaning off the tire. Too much and the tire grabs your shoe, yanking it toward the frame, where it will wedge between the frame and tire, and then you crash in a very awkward position. Not cool.
Naturally I gave this task a lot of attention. I was trying very hard to make sure my foot didn’t get sucked between the frame and tire. So it was that I didn’t see coming the pothole that gave my rear tire a pinch flat.
It’s safe to conclude that today was that inner tube’s day to go.
Binford, you’ve been one-upped.
This is a hydraulically powered chainsaw designed for cutting concrete.
That’s all.
–asked the young man, in a stiff European accent and inquisitive tone.
“This is a lumber yard kid, not some cheesy cafe. Beat it.” replied the gruff worker behind the counter.
The next day at opening, the young man walked in again and asked the same worker, “Do you have any croissants? I just love those.” He had the very same inquisitive tone.
“I TOLD YOU YESTERDAY. This is a lumber yard, we sell lumber, we don’t sell no stupid French food. Murphs is the only good food in town, go get a beef sandwich or somethin’. If you come here again asking for croissants, I will personally hammer a nail through your tongue to this counter–*cashier hits counter with fist*. Beat it!”
Showing equal parts courage and stupidity, the young man walked into the lumber yard again the next day, first thing in the morning.
In his odd European accent: “Pardon me, but do you have any hammers?”
“No.” replied the worker, a bit confused, but already feeling angry again at this dumb European kid.
“Do you have any nails?” the young man asked, in his same inquisitive tone.
The worker raised his voice a bit, and hit the counter with his fist: ” *BAM*. No. Kid, this is a lumber yard. We sell lumber. Didn’t they teach you to read signs?!”
“Well, that’s fine than. Do you have any croissants?”