Scabrous Pantaloon

Good googly, was feeling awferlly downward dog, had a bolt of delicious tea and now the caffeine is riddling my brain. Shouldn't be a slave to these things but oh well, it's better than building the doomsday machine in my mind.

Bumptuous Learhead

Sunny town-sides this go-round, pleasant as a duck's patootie and ain't half so stinky. The burgh is throbbing with white people and mass transit, like some European wet dream. Me myself, I like a little grit, it keeps people hopping, but too much grit and you have to shower every time you look out the window.

With the impenetrable smell of fancy coffee and luxury meats floofing through downtown comes a boorish soaking up of the shadows by the midget walls of wannabe skytacklers. Down this street, look: a praying lunatic; down that alley, look: transit workers in cornea-searing yellow jackets and big union smiles, gently picking leaves from the tracks; up this corner, look: a small bottle blonde walking three hungry Great Pyrenees, all wearing sweaters and sunglasses. The town is incorrect in as many ways as it can be, and yet the people are inversely proportionally happy. Even the madmen follow their little madmen rules. Even the criminals tip their hats. Even the politicians clasp their hands together in true glee when you slap their face. It's an inverted utopia, designed to make America jealous and broken.

It didn't work, but the experiment continues on anyway, oblivious and self-obsessed. The winter wind gives it a chance to wake up and reconfigure but the town-folk just pull their synthetic fleece caftans tighter, slather on lip balm (let the bum have a hit of it, you good Samaritan), and do your Pilates on the traffic-free esplanade of a dream gone backwards.

photo from http://flickr.com/photos/80651083@N00/2655690728/