it is hot enough for me

 And for her too.  I went to the track at noon today and, while I didn't feel that searing sensation in my nose when I inhaled,  there was an oven-like feeling of heat pressing in from all directions -- down, up, sideways. It was nice.  She was in such a graceful attitude, even in jorts.  Waiting for the bus.

art direction

She said right off, she didn't know how to pose, so I said No problem and art directed the heck out of this photo.  I said, how about you stand in front of that cheese (because we were in Lund's and I like cheese) and bend one knee a little and hold your arms real stiffly down at your sides like you're in line for the bathroom in first grade. And dye your hair blond (yesterday) and get it cut real cute and piece-y. I said she could go ahead and wear the wonderfully CandyLand licorice tunic and beachballs of fun locally made necklace that she got at a Paper Darts pop-up store, because I was going for a 60s pop art concept that's what she was wearing.  I took care of the glasses reflection, told some other shoppers to stay the hell out of the picture and viola!  Art direction is easy.

pipes at Menards

She oughta work out, right?  Damn.  She said she doesn't usually dress like this to shop at Menard's but since it was on the way home from church...  Messin wit yoo.  She's on her way over right now to deliver her comments upside my mullet.

sharp dressed man, sharp dressed man

Ok, I can't turn off the upstairs/downstairs format. Point n shoot cameras are surprisingly stupid complex.  

But in this case, the double frame reflects my double take as I toddled on by the uptown bus stop and saw, not a man of occasional teeth with a lot of plastic bags and a damp raccoon stuffed into a wire shopping trolley as you'd expect, but rather this sharp dressed homme.  What's the diff, you burble?  Subtle -- allow me.  His pants are dressily dark-washed, not wet.  Pocket square where leftover hamburger should be.  No duct tape over holes in shoes.  Coordinating fabric at cuffs and inside collar gives the desired look of wearing all your clothes at once without the bulk.  Hears Beyonce's voice instead of the neighbor's dog's.  Aviators that say Hey, instead of eyeballs that say Whoa. 

This is David, Assistant Manager at HammerMade Shirts, Accessories and Service in the Galleria.  I know that because, instead of some flatware and a travel bottle of Listerine up his sleeve like most people,  he has a business card dispenser.  I have never seen someone access a business card so smoothly.  Our entire exchange was one of sophistication and chill. Well, me more than David. That goes without saying. I did not even ask him where the rest of his truck was.

the real dude

Those two cafe curtains of blond are his natural hair color even though his eyebrows are naturally jet black. And I was like, No way.

I had my camera on stutter, which is an artistic setting.  That I could turn off if I wanted to.

ultra fresh

It would be super sweet if I could download the edited version of this photo, the one that shows the dew on her rounded cheeks, the sassy fringe of her pixie cut and the happy insouciance of her kneecaps, but alas, the cruel gods of iPhoto, iMNotGonna, have played their cards. A recent graduate of St. Olaf College, she gets lots of compliments on her extra-neat hair so she's pursueing spriteliness as a career.

ya know how you (I) always like pretty people?

Crap. I'm filled with a level of self-loathing that would make any psychologist skip with joy. I saw this woman coming a mile away, and thought she was smarter and thinner and more beautiful and more cultured and cooler and blacker and shinier than I could ever be.  And I was right. Thank goodness I was at least right.

Don't mess with L'Etoile du Nord

She's fearlessly mashing up references to Minnesota and, via the boots her grandma gifted her, Vassar.  I mean, Texas.

Thug in Chloe pants and unmatched shoes

And a chastity belt that is not necessary, given the unirrigated condition, hideously veinous scarecrow arms and unattractive stance of the subject, above.  But nevermind that.  Dig these heavyweight Chloe vintage ski pants that have gone a bit disco at the bottom, and the Ibiza-luvin Luca Luca sandal on the fore paw (is that a faux pas?) and the lizard Michael Kors pump with toes a-peeping on the back foot.  I cannot explain the gangsta chain other than to say it arrived, with the rest of this swag, in a big sell-back box from the young one so I put it on.  Everything.  At once.  

Do you like the Chloe pants but wish they were in a goldenrod color and on your pins instead of mine? And without the thug chain?  And with matching shoes? And a pedi?  And maybe not in front of a Chevy Aveo-sized television set with bunny ear antennas?  It could happen if you get yourself up to  GH2 in Minneapolis.  I swear I haven't tried those on.  And if I did, I was wearing underpants.

living la vida Las Vegas

Oh lookit, real Japanese people seeing the real America.  Or the Caesar's Palace version of both.  This was from my overnight stay in Las Vegas of eight hours, which was about seven hours too much.  I had never been and it was cheap to fly into, so we did, but let me say right here, the Ninth Circle of Hell has nothing on Las Vegas.  I did not see one person smile without being poked by a cattle prod, everyone seemed miserable, everything was plastic, it was loud and glaring. The only good thing was that it was 106 degrees, a dry heat, by 9 in the a.m. which I enjoyed.  I took the photo above, not drunk but merely staggering along through the crush on The Strip, because I dug that they bought into the Disney-esque vibe. 

i'm farther off-grid than usual

Well fine, fair weather perverts, all three of you.  So I haven't posted in a couple weeks.  What,  you need a constantly refreshed stream of nonsense very astute commentary from me?  Every frickin minute?  You do, really?  I heart unhealthy codependence.  Which is why I'm in the wilds of southern Utah recharging my batteries -- 32AAA.  Ha, getting there. Here's something I hate (and nurturing various antipathies is another sign I'm almost back to 100 proof) -- relaxing.  God I hate relaxing.  When I tear out of the lodge in a coffee-feuled mania at 6:15 a.m. (which, incidentally is several hours earlier than I arise at home) to get in ten spleen-melting miles on red dirt Navajo Nation roads prior to our double traverse of the Grand Canyon, and I come back stoked and smelling like three-day-old mutton and see a bunch of Germans in faggoty capris (herr) and an ikat printed tunic with matching capris (her) relaaaaaaxing on the porch with their big American kafes looking smugly mellow, well, it's all I can do not to dump them out of their rockers mentioning that they are even at that moment supporting the lazy good-for-nothing siesta-loving late-night-eating Spanish.  I can sit on my ass at home.  I can relax when I die.  If I pay good money to fly to the land of polygamy, dammit I'm going to get up early and stay up late fitting in as much inappropriate behavior as wives in a wagon.  Hoowee. 

Here's me and the kumquat enjoying a bowel-clearing gambol in southern Utah.  This is what passes for entertainment here.  I'll tell you more about it later but right now, the Mormon I paid to hand-crank the router has to go grind some flour.  La la.