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KL: The Runner That Reads, sweat her way into my heart this weekend after running 13 miles in the sun, eating flavorless gel to power up, looking a little peaked, and after only one bottle of water and one banana, GOING OUT DRINKING WITH US LAZYKINS WITH NO REGARDS, even requesting "Wherever, Whenever" by Shakira at Nelvin's karaoke. Nevin's. Nesbitt's. Something, whatever. Alas, after several B'more bars, the wait for the song that never materialized and a particular drunk girl dedicated to role-playing Karaoke Em-Cee, we decided to go with greasy pizza instead and then sleep. Oh, sweet sleep in Baltimore. I miss your street sounds. I vow to visit more often.
The wait for Shakira's "Whenever, Wherever" proved that this song's title is a total misnomer. -- KL
Anywayshoos, a picture. It's a re-enactment. We're not wearing shoes. La Bella Mafia drew the stick figure with one leg longer than the other, to "signify motion."
Our signs have glitter. Dear Baltimore Sun, you did not mention the fact that THE SIGNS HAD GLITTER. Also, I am mad we missed the gummy bear guy.
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On Sunday, I museumed, lucky enough to have a prtnr-n-crime who pointed out MONSTERS in the illuminated manuscripts. If you're into staring at old books with gold leaf, and picking out the secret monster drawings, and listening to some cheesy-ass soundtracking (well done, National Gallery), the NGA is your new hang. Also/more importantly, we saw the Orsanmichele exhibit, which wasn't too crowded for a Sunday and is only three pieces, so if you have 30 minutes to kill, you should head over. Get a latte, read the paper. Etc.
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In other news, I'm taking my dog to the vet this afternoon since he can't stop shitting. Poor shitting dog. Perhaps he ate a bird.
Since I'm so boring, go read this. Vampires? Man. I thought it was cool when S. and I would put on camo face paint, sneak out to Tim whats-his-names house in the country, and spy on him and his new girlfriend through their basement windows. Nowadays, I think it's called "stalking." My 17th year is soundtracked by "Vauxhall & I."
8 comments:
Wow. Firefly. You really weren't kidding about that whole "I'm a dork" thing, huh?
Unrepentant dork. Line to mock me forms at left.
However, Pot, you wear orange pants. Let us discuss dorkdom, son. Pull up a chair.
I will stand by my claim that orange pants are cool in pockets of the south, the more lacrosse-intensive regions of the mid-atlantic, two towns in connecticut, and nantucket. (Also: Bar Harbour, ME; Millbrook, NY.) "Firefly", however, is acknowledged as dorky even by its defenders (Vid. reply directly above).
I just wrote a several billion word reply to all this, ranting and I think I somehow worked feminism into it, and maybe sheep? I can't really remember. It made my eyes bleed, so I erased it all. I don't really care all that much about fashion except jeans that make my ass look fat, so whatevs. Rock on with your orange pants.
Just assure me you won't turn your blog into a discussion on all the hottest in faux-Kennedy wear. Look what happened to a certain "mens club" when it wrote about pants: it went from kind of a humorous sideshow to terribly tragic in such a short amount of time.
Time for me to go find my twelve-sided die.
twelve sided die for life.
I support Lance's orange pants. (cafe press store to follow).
and i support the right to watch sci-fi by myself in my basement on a friday night. woooooot.
now that' sa teeshirt.
I assure you, no discussion of horizontally-striped anything will soon be found gracing my pages. Nor will I start shilling for charities, giving grooming hints and tips, or posting pictures of myself smiling like a grinshit in a stripey shirt.
or fucking a florist, for christ's sake.
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