fun police

I was riding through PPG plaza today. It has been a great day. Vonnegut used to quote his Uncle Alex, who, while sipping lemonade on his back porch, would remark 'if this isn't great, I don't know what is.'

That's how I felt today. My pedals spun with synchronicity through the city. The clouds were high and wispy. Everything was flowing, everything was, for lack of a better word, clicking. (Clicking sounds too harsh, too mechanical for the fluidity of the day.)

I was riding through PPG plaza and I saw the same lonesome security guard I have seen on several occasions now. Hands clasped behind his back. Blank stare at the fountain. It is this man's job to prevent people from running, swimming, dancing in the fountain.

Fun Police.

No one gets hurt in the fountain. I mean, not traditionally. Perhaps, but, for the most part, it is pure fun. And this poor man is making a poor man's wage to stand guard over this fountain, and prevent fun. There are a couple fucking dinosaurs noone is fucking with in the plaza. His only possible job is to stop yinzers from frolicking.

And I wonder when this man goes to sleep at night what burdens he carries.

Scream With Me

I was at the laundromat tonight.

The least sketchy one on the South Side. They're all pretty sketchy, but this one is my kind of sketch.

Plus, the have attendants that walk in sometimes to scope things out and scare the thugs away.

Plus, there is a bar catty-corner. (Some people say 'kitty-corner' I always thought that was weird.)

Jaggerbush, which is yinzer as fuck. (the bar is called Jaggerbush)

So I'm that laundromat. I am struggling with my basket, my laundry bag, my Vonnegut, soap, drier sheets, and these weird voo-doo drier balls my mom bought me, trying to get through the door, when this nubile angel opens the door for me. I smile as I try to shift the weight from my arms and focus it up through to my chest and muffle out a 'thanks' and a half smile. As she breezes by I notice a little half-sleeve, working girls, same coverage as mine. Nice.

She has her hair pulled up in a bun. Tight. Perfect complexion. No make-up and still a knock-out, so you know she's great to wake up next to.

I loaded my laundry and tried to limit my eye contact. Didn't want to stare, didn't want to mouth to gape.

I ran home and did a whole lot of nothing for 28 minutes. I returned to the laundromat. As I approached the drier with my dry-ables, I noted her fine behind staring at me. I followed the fine path of her body from bottom, to feet, up her long, lean legs, and up through her wife beater when I came to a gem -

'Scream
With
Me'

tattooed on her neck. I instantly invisioned fistfulls of hair, furious sex, sweat, cursing, and screaming in that wonderfully carnal synchronous harmony that can only occur during great sex. I quickly forced my thoughts back to laundry laundry laundry. I walked to the machine next to hers, loaded my dry-ables, and tried not to stare.