Overheard around town, Juneuary edition

On the 18 to Ballard last night, two drunk dudes checked each other's street cred.
"You like Scooby snacks?"
Nah, man, them's for kids.
"No, man, you ever been in the penitentiary? No? King County Jail?"
Proudly: Never been locked up.
"That's what they call breakfast sausage in the King County Jail. 'Scooby snacks.' If somebody asks 'do you like Scooby snacks' you better say hell yeah."
*
The 30 to Fremont this afternoon felt like a scene from Wings of Desire, with snippets of strangely endearing conversations percolating around the back of the coach.
I don't know what I want to do with my life.
"Dudes, there's this new movie coming out with Nicolas Cage and the Rock!"
I just want to be happy. I don't care what I'm doing, as long as I'm happy.
"So you don't get off at this stop." "Uh--no."
I want to learn French. But I think I'd speak it with a Japanese accent.
"You think he can excuse their pathetic defense the past two matches? Like I excused those two knuckleheads in class earlier? No, I didn't think so."

Busysmartypants:Tumblr -- portals

Attenzione!
Check out BusySmartyPants:Tumblr for a new group of photos: portals.

Texture

I did something last week that some (most) would consider douche-y.
I'm not proud. I apologized. I thought, It's so not me.
But it was me.
And on a certain level I enjoyed it, because it felt gross and painful and honest.
I have no patience right now for the stable, the sane, the normal, the ordinary, for 8 hours of sleep a night and a well-balanced breakfast, for the perfect manicure or tights without holes or polite conversation or men with Careers or literary novels or good grammar or nice dinners.
Someone accused me of being an adrenaline junkie but I don't think that's it. I just want to live the bejeezus out of life, out of this city. I want to feel--love, sadness, disappointment, desire, anger--so deeply and truly that I almost can't stand it.
Then what, I dunno. There may not be a then.

Look up (don't look up)

How great is it when the distance between the absurd and the rational is about two feet.
Walking along Elliott Avenue yesterday I saw this sign.
Chuckled.
Looked up. Saw the scene at right.
Looked down. Picture a sidewalk coated with a thick fresh frosting of bird shit.
Carried on, duly forewarned.
*
I'm grouping photos when it makes sense; see "the commentariat" over on busysmartypants:tumblr.

Ready ok!

The unironically-mulleted Danny McBride doppelgänger at the DMV last week must have taken my photo a dozen times.
You moved your chin.
No move it back.
Were you a cheerleader in a previous life? (mocking) Ready, ok!
*
Check out these videos for the band OK Go. I think they're my new rock star boyfriends.

• OK Go site
• Earnest geekazoid article explaining "speed of time" video
• Rube Goldberg video for "this too shall pass"
  
• Treadmill video for "here it goes again"

Tumble on ovr

Check out this cross post to my new tumblr crib, also called BusySmartyPants.
It's all part of my PlanMaster MasterPlan, in other words, experimenting with new ways to post photos and sound files.
Let me know what you think.

Gomer's visiting from Chicago

I don't even bring reading material on Metro anymore. The scenes are that tasty.
Saturday evening, the 124 to Georgetown. A drunk guy boards at 3rd and Pine and sits close. Whats my name, where do I live, do I want his number? When he persists--what neighborhood you live in, gurrrl--I say, Hey, if you had a daughter, would you want her telling strange men where she lives? He allows he wouldn't. And retreats.
My next seatmate is an overweight teenager, who asks to use my phone. I dial for her, hand it over. She starts crying and bawls into the phone for awhile. Nervous--will she bolt?--I keep an eye on her. A guy sitting in the accordion section of the bus shakes his head. I'm from Chicago. This is the weirdest bus I've ever been on.
The woman across from him says tartly, Then you haven't been on very many buses.

Just a ride

At a Ballard bar last weekend a drunk guy kept bragging about the vinyl he'd picked up at the Punk Rock Flea Market. I said, to be polite, So do you have a turntable?
He said, witheringly, Why would I buy records, if I didn't have a damn turntable?
A guy nearby, in a pimped-out wheelchair and sipping whiskey, commented, Well why do I buy shoes, when I'm in a damn wheelchair?
*
Began my Saturday with a SIFF movie -- American: The Bill Hicks Story. See it.
It's just a ride.

Uh huh

A rough patch, they call it.
*
Could be sandpaper.
A whisker rub.
Bare thighs against a vintage horsehair sofa.
Triscuits.
Static.
*
Depending on your vision, or your expectations.

Snap like a jigsaw

Pieces fell into place this week. Fragments of knowledge coalesced. Bits snapped together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Worries became reality. A hunch played out. And I flexed, without injury.
Translation:
Suspect connections frayed; a breakup, which I had long expected, became more imminent.
One burgeoning friendship faded; others blossomed.
A faithful companion moved households.
I surfed, I coasted, I rope-a-doped and bounced back ready to swing again.
This may be obtuse and if it is, I apologize.
Take the stairs--two at at time!--stay loose, be open, embrace confusion, be ready.

HBD Yula

Today's my little sis's birthday.
She's a fellow instigator, a smartypants and a smartass, doing her best to keep us all amused and on our toes.
Need somebody to chase a tumbleweed through a Colorado ditch, plant a zombie in your yard, take naughty faux-tos or teach a training class in a Russian accent, well this is your girl.
HBD Yula.

Hammy onstage

Hammy Smackbooty tells jokes:

Nosferatu, c'est moi?

I might be a vampire.
Not because I am on Team Edward or that it's au courant.
Mostly because I'm up late a lot of nights, wandering the streets or trading conversation in a murky bar. I treasure decayed stuff like this distressed blue wall. Or a chili-stained napkin a distracted sculptor drew on.
I feel like a vampire because I'm as old as I am, and the people I am meeting who are working and creating are a decade younger, sometimes more. I listen to their beats, am awed by their drawing skills, go to shows and buy their work, and wonder if they feel weird about the old girl hanging around because I sure do.
Still, you are as old as you are no matter what. You've reached where you are and there's nothing you can do to change the past. It's either profound or enough to send you running for the railing.