I went on a couple of road trips this semester, one to
After Brutopia and a failed search for poutine, we found a knocked-over parking meter, which we decided to carry the ten plus blocks back to Smilo’s with the intention of smuggling it back into the
“Hey boys, where’d ya get that sign, eh?”
“We found it on the street.”
“A lot of police driving around here at this time… you might wanna put it down, eh?”
(By the way it’s 4:45 am; there are no cops anywhere nearby)
“I’m not too worried about it.”
“I think you should put it down, or I might have to call the police myself, eh.”
We froze. I laughed. Is this guy serious? We continued to walk, but he continued to follow and started to dial. I was ready to call his bluff but my friend who was helping me carry the heavy meter dropped his end and we peaced. We circled the block once figuring the guy would be gone and we could pick it up again. But no, he was still on the phone with the police standing tall with Canadian pride over the felled parking meter. Once again, it’s 4:45 am.
The D.C. trip also proved to be a good time, even though it started with us getting pulled over, while listening to 99 problems, for blocking the intersection. In D.C., we spent most of our time in the GWU neighborhood which, although very nice, wouldn’t sell beer after 10:00pm. Since the weather was much better than it is in either
That night we went to a famous diner just outside the city. Our waiter was a fat, wrinkly, creepy-looking, pale old white guy with homosexual tendencies whose gut was bulging out of his tight polo shirt fit for a 15 year-old Gap male model. When our food was taking long to come, he apologized and explained to us that some men had sat at the counter and were ordering directly from the cooks. He pointed at the men, some African-American fellows, and frustratingly mumbled, “They’re messing up all the orders… I wish I had some lighter fluid.” To this we responded with nervous smiles and then got the fuck out of there.
D.C. is most certainly part of the South.
No one likes Charles Dickens.
Photographing Pokemon is the highest artistic pursuit of man.
Black peeps can fuckin’ ball… end of story.