Thursday, August 03, 2006

Although some, if they did in fact see a snapshot of Yours Truly entering the car dealership, might proffer up that it was the strappy sandals, the preferred raison would be my keen bargaining skills, a raging and recurrent audaciousness.

*sidebar tell-taling is that I was selecting blogmusic and hit the hi-fi's eject and out popped several that YT had not inserted - discs placed in the carousel by the most-recent outta sight/outta town guests, The Bummer Road, who played a subterranean Middling City gig this past Tuesday. Reflecting influences, collective m.o., and chemstate, they listened to Mazzy Star, Love, Miles. Of course, of course, and of course.*

So there I am, at the dealership, full of pique, up to my discerning eyeballs with the Mildewmobile, its exhaustive issues, its short list of lemony quirks that should have stayed away from the 1.5 year-old vehicle. But no. So, having had enough, I am there, in the strappy sandals, as I mentioned. I was shuttled over by a greeter type, a femme in training, to a young former film student and grip (one shares personal fun facts over such wheelings) taking the first bite of a sandwich. In a nutshell, two hours later, I was signing a contract for a new Subaru lease. I picked it out from the slim manual transmission pickings - dark gray. Do you want to drive it, Matt the former film student/grip asked. No, that's allright, I shot back. Two hours later it had been detailed and I was again on my mildewless way. Happily.
Onwards. Literally.

Recently I horrified a pal with my strong summertime, male-related belief system that, in a nutshell, is a most unratifiable short list.
1. Men should not ever be shirtless in public, no matter their age, follicle level, social status. Except on a beach.
2. No sandals for men. YT has never seen a man in a pair of sandals and thought Geez, he does look smart and sassy and great in those. No sandals for men, ever.
Not even on the beach.
And I do thank You in advance for your attention to these important, seasonal matters.

I just hauled three pals into the new Woody Allen movie. There went two hours of our lives, eight hours of wasted life time in all.
The best part of the movie was some shots of gardens, I saw some of my beloved plume poppies. Of course the plume poppies were much more controlled than what appears in the personal jungle.

Jungle Love.
It's driving me mad, it's driving me crazy.
As Steve Miller et al are wont to say.

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