I asked a banjo playing squatter a question the other night. He looked at me in my unsoiled navy blue sneakers and my fancy hoody and my little flowered wristlet sewn from recycled plastics, and when he opened up his mouth to speak revealed a mouthful of overly large, rotting teeth. His answer to my question was no although he said it in booming, thoughtful words. Then he broke into song, nearly drowned out by the dreadlocked accordian player. You could see his teeth real good when he sang, because he sang loud like he was shouting. I like that kind of singing.
His songs made me think about the social relevance of spending one's time on obsessive hobbies like dog agility and zumba. Both which are really, really hard to do in skin tight pegged black jeans tucked into dumpster salvaged work boots.
I thought about it for a while while I walked out to my nice clean Jetta stationwagon and drove home and went to sleep on my high thread count flannel sheets. Beats hopping a rail car and sleeping in a tree.
I was loading up the dogs into the wagon the next day after a run at the whale skeletons. I open up the door and they all jump into their boxes. Cages. Crates. Whatever. A lady had some little chihuahuas and had her silver sports car parked by me. She stopped and looked and said, "They all have to sit in cages?"
I'm all, "Yep," and clicked someone's door shut.
She stood there with her mouth open. "That's amazing. Really amazing." Looked in my car and looked at me. Shook her head and loaded her dogs up on the passenger seat of her shiny ride. She was little and wore a matching track suit. I would have worn it. Even though I'm someone that puts dogs in boxes.
5 comments:
"Cages." I hate that description, which I sometimes get, although I suppose it's true. "Box" is better. I'm usually more rude and say something like, "Would you let your child ride loose in the car?"
It's all subjective, isn't it. I was wearing a handmade patchwork dress the other night, the same one I wore 22 years ago to my first Nirvana concert, and I looked at the dress, then looked at the expensive, fancy dog food I was feeding Freddie. I don't see myself buying a new dress anytime soon.
I didn't even think about that vegan anarchist punk rockers have a whole dress code and nowadays my dress code screams out that I'm "The Man" or "Problem Not Solution" or something like that so I can't really blend with vegan anarchist punk rockers.
It also doesn't blend with sportscar driving tracksuit wearers. I think I plunk down somewhere right in the middle.
I had a handmade patchwork dress and I think I might have worn it with pegged skin tight dyed jeans and even doc martens. Or slipon vans. Probably about 20 years ago. One of the hippie punk rockers who lived in the garage made it. Mine is long gone, from a time when all my clothes were tiny little sizes I will never see again.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/11856401@N06/6977052589/in/photostream
The expensive all leather boots and fancy camera are a dead give away. The vegan anarchists can see right through my liberal ways. And the track suit wearing, sports car driving women can see right through my torn cuticles, broken nails, and large pores.
A patchworky dream of the 90's!
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